She dashed and crashed through the kitchen. Plates clanked, mugs clacked, and cursed uttered. I hate this damn family. She thinks she is so wonderful that her precious baby boy can do no wrong. Well, to hell with her and her precious "boy!" It was ridiculous that a gown man was referred to as boy anyway. Jackass.

And there he sat living it up, lapping it up soaking it. His dear momma. Momma’s boy! Weak ass, jackass... two take and cram it up your...

She slammed the butcher block onto the cabinet, snatched open the fridge door, grabbed the geese. She felt murderous. She tied the two necks together.. For no purpose, not called for in the recipe , but it felt good to ring ‘em, string ‘em, and slam ‘em down. She looked at the fat blade. Silvery shine bounced off the edge. She traced the fine sharp blade through the breast.

"Now, deary don’t hack the thing to bits. That’s no way to prepare fresh geese. Can’t have you upsetting my boy’s delicate stomach." She cooed and croaked and stroked his fat head.

She threw the blade into the butcher block. It wobbled side to side with the force. She reached around her back, ripped out the bow, and threw the apron onto the stove.

"Well, if you are so worried about your boy perhaps you should take over the cooking, your royal highness." She stomped through the living room, swept up her purse, coat, and keys. 20 seconds later rubber screeched down the road.

"Don’t worry about her, my precious boy. Momma’s here to take care of you. " He smiled, covered up, and relaxed.

3 AM... "Who could that be at this time of night?" The decrepit fat dowager rolled out of bed. She slumped into a terry cloth bathroom and fuzzy house slippers. Again the buzzer jangled, "I’m comin’ keep your socks on. For heavens, sake."

"Momma what is it." His red hair was tasseled, his fat butt hanging out of his waffle cloth boxers. His shaggy red-orange beard lent him a sheepish grizzled bear look. His whiney voice and disheveled appearance spoke volumes. Momma’s boy!

"Go on back to bed boy, I’ll take care of everything. I’m coming!" She waddled her fat figure to the door. "Now who is out here making all this racket?"

When she opened the door, only a fat basket decorated for Christmas sat on the porch.

"My land."

"What is it momma?"

"I’ll see." She bent down to pick up the heavy bundle, her wide fat hips pushed back the screen door. Just as she stood, a large gooey mass struck her full in the face. It dripped and slid its way down like melting wax. She screamed, the impact knocking her head back and stretching her neck. The splatter against the front door outlined her corpulent head. Before she could recover another ballistic projectile exploded into her rotund mid section. A third glob shot straight into her overbearing pie whole.

"Momma! Momma!" Her dead head son wriggled to her rescue. "What the devil!"

"Merry Christmas your Royal Fat Ass." Another barrage slammed into her and her dead beat son. "And a happy New year!"

Tires squealed as they peeled down the street. A dark figure held up two middle fingers and it leaned out the passenger side window.

Stunned and peeved totally shocked out of character, she looked into the basket. She screamed and the package hit the floor with a sickening thud and squishy rolls. Rolling rolling tumbling like meatballs from spaghetti and just as soggy, Santa’s severed head bounced across the living room carpet. Fat momma passed out in the midst of guts and blood. Stapled to the ear, a little note... May this bring you great cheer. Signed Santa. A doggy paw print had left it’s red stamp on the white placard.