The three-foot-tall woman who lives with us has given notice as to what she wants for Christmas. At the very top of her list is a one-foot-tall baby human. Delicious, I thought. A one-foot-tall zombie could be very useful around the house.

However interesting it is still unacceptable, I told her. One cannot buy a one-foot-tall person in this country legally. No fair putting items on your Christmas list that violate international law.

[It reminded me of the holiday when I begged mother and father for the Elephant Man's bones- before that Neverland freak bought them out from under me.]

But my wife tells me that we can substitute a fake one-foot-tall human for a real one. She won't notice, she says. However, something tells me that she will quickly discover our rouse and report us to the authorities. Our three-foot-tall perpetual houseguest is wily, taking notice of absolutely everything at and below four feet of elevation.

When my wife brought it home, I was disappointed. Sure, the one-foot-tall human looked real enough. But it made no ridiculous demands, did not insist on being carried everywhere- and where was its ever-present bottle of mysterious liquor? She informed me that I was to search through our junk drawer to find two D-Cell batteries.

Lo and behold, the thing sprang to life, shrieking like a banshee. And unlike the real one-foot-tall humans, some form of black magic caused this one to speak. "Feed me," it said. "Change my diaper." Talked up a storm, it did, more like a three-foot-tall human. On and on until you turned the thing off. Ah, that's more like it.

It all took me back to the days when our three foot tall perpetual houseguest was only a third its current height. The drooling. The regurgitation. The explosive incontinence. And that was just me. The one-foot-tall human didn't fare much better.

The wife informed me that I was to get a present myself for the three-foot-tall one. She reads a lot- or I should say she is read to a lot. So, I picked up a copy of a cherished H.P. Lovecraft tome at a local bookstore. I have decided not to tell even the wife about the present until Christmas morning.

[How C'thulhu Stole Christmas! The illustration of Santa Claus with a little worm coming out of his forehead is so cute!]

I can't wait to see their faces!

Merry Christmas. Or something like that, I guess.