My ankles are put throught the standard holiday test battery

A Chrysler Le Baron is in front of me. It's a convertible all right, but the soft top is up, and the heat is difficult to keep trapped. It's cold in there. The only option is to tighten the hood over the ears and hope for the best, but a cold wind is constant and eats the flesh. The other option is to park the car and eat some Wendy's food. Nothing better than a hot baked potato on a cold day. But if there's one rule I know, it's to never, ever, park your Le Baron in this neighborhood. Never. Put a pencil through your eye first. It's not that anybody will viciously attempt to take your Le Baron, or even hassle you, it's just simply that you don't want to park here and have to think about things - the way they are, they way the were, they way they ought to be. You'll step outside of car, take a look at the backside of your hand in the wind, small mid-digit hair moving erratically, then look down the street and wonder what the fuck happened and where in time you have gotten lost. Really, it's best just not to go there. Stay on Fond du Lac Avenue, by all means, but don't stop. If you stop you'll be forced into the thought trap that they've built there with rotting plywood, crushed bricks, rusted iron bars, and stained class. That's not what you do at Christmas. It's not fucking Christian of you and it's un-fucking American. This is the time for us all to come together, purchase leaden plastic goods, fuck up family affairs, and drink rubbing alcohol under a cold, dark, moon. I like to remind my readers each year that this is Pagan tradition, so please, blame the weird kids (and not the Christ child), take your prescribed "soothing" pharmaceuticals, take two laps around the cul-de-sac, and continue on with the march we've been taught.