Looking For A Christmas Miracle

Shel Silverstein wrote a clever little poem that was about a boy trying to sell a sibling.
"One sister for sale
One sister for sale
One crying and spying young sister for sale....."

You get the idea. I'm selling one of the Offspring. Now, before you immediately go to bat for buck-buck #1, read the following story. His own grandmother said I should sell him.

We don't claim to be of any significance in our household. We are your average run-of-the-mill type. Middle America. Damn lucky in my book, we could be middle Pakastani.

In our average, mediocer abode we subscribe to the likes of the American Christian tradition of St. Nick. Santa Claus. Par Noel. Topo Gigio. Little Elf who slides down a chimney once a year and leaves a loot under the tree. A hideous practice in culture consumption, oh yeah. And we gleefully participate.

This year, in our "new, 100 year old home" we decided to aim for truly old fashioned. "A Christmas Story" come to life. Minus the pink bunny suit. So, with all the typical chorus to accompany the request, we convinced the Offspring that what they wanted were "Official Red Ryder bee, bee guns".

On Tuesday, in a stellar move, buck-buck #1 decided to "show" buck-buck #2 their official "Santa" gifts and then proceded to try and back his way out of it, without success. He's looking for a Christmas Miracle. It's going to cost him a pretty penny.