Tonight, my mother-in-law was innocently eating her delicious re-heated Thanksgiving mashed potatoes (one of the rare dishes that I, as a culinarily-challenged human being, actually do right) when simultaneously, our newly re-instated Elf on the Shelf, Mario, was in the midst of working out an emotional crisis. One minute, he was perched happily on the chandelier just above the kitchen table, appearing to all the world like a stable, well-adjusted, satisfied Minion of Santa, and the next minute, he’d taken a head-first plunge to certain death right into my mother-in-law’s portion of my famous mashed potatoes’ steaming, stifling, salty, buttery goodness. My mother-in-law, understandably concerned for Mario’s safety, screams out, “Oh shiiiit!” but realizing the kids were around, considerately puts a “ski” on the end so that it comes out “Oh shiiiitski!” The boys are too busy frying their brains via iPhones and iPads to pick up on the fact that elves are shitski-ing around in mashed potatoes, luckily, because my mother-in-law just freaking picks the elf up with her BARE HANDS and puts him back on the chandelier. Doesn’t she know that if she touches him she could a) turn to stone, b) grow a second head and start singing Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town in stereo, c) make Mario lose his magic, or d) cause lifelong trauma to my three sons by doing a, b, or c? Apparently someone needs a lesson in How Not to Shitski All Over Christmas.
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