Keeping Score
Christmas with your family is basically a game where everyone acts out their worst impulses and you’re just sitting there watching it happen. You might as well score points for the carnage.
Your dog has no idea what Christmas is. He just knows someone’s handing him brown stuff instead of the usual bones and chicken guts, and that’s confusing to him. Two hundred points if he throws up on the good carpet every ten minutes all night. Minus five hundred if you wake up the next morning naked in a bathtub with him.
Then there’s your cousin, same one as always, except this time they’ve done something with themselves and you actually notice. Four hundred points if you’re not actually related and you disappear into the attic for a while. Two hundred points off if none of that matters to you either way.
Your parents bought the cheapest tree possible. It’s not even green anymore, it’s brown, with gaps where whole branches should be. Three hundred points if you set the thing on fire and pin it on your little brother. Minus two hundred if you catch on fire first.
Uncle Ludwig shows up already drunk. He’s gonna piss in the potato salad, grab everyone’s ass regardless of how they feel about it, and hand you a ten-euro gift card like that makes up for anything. Five hundred points if you get him naked on the roof and he stays there. Minus three hundred if the hot cousin notices him instead of you.
Your little brother got a PlayStation 3. New. Top of the line. You got socks. He tears the box open, looks at the gorgeous machine, and then he plays with the cardboard for twenty minutes. Two hundred fifty points if you pack him in there and get it shipped to Africa. Minus four hundred if he comes back years later loaded and you’re still broke.
Your grandmother didn’t make it to the bathroom in time. Not because anything’s wrong with her—she’s just thrilled everyone’s here, the roast is smelling perfect, snow’s falling outside—she didn’t notice she’d pissed herself. Three hundred points if you watch her turn into an accidental fire extinguisher. Minus five hundred if you pissed yourself laughing.
And then there’s the bonus round. A hundred points if it somehow snows indoors. Minus two hundred if your grandmother forgot you got anything at all. Minus three hundred if you actually wanted SpongeBob sheets—and got them, and nobody was joking. That’s maybe the saddest thing that happens all year.
Four hundred if you build a working sled out of the neighbor’s cats. Two hundred if you get drunk enough that the night turns into an actual story. Minus five hundred if that story is you with your head in the toilet.