The Russian Judge Only Gave Her A Seven

Mark is so gay he can't even put the Christmas tree up straight. Even as I was laying on the floor, securing the trunk in the tree stand, I told him it was crooked and he needed to move it more towards the window. "No," Mark insisted, "It's just right."

It was just last year that Mark lost most of his favorite, most expensive ornaments, when the tree came crashing down. You would think he had learned something from that experience. I certainly learned from it. I learned to stay the hell away from the thing until it falls, otherwise he'll find a way to blame me. Luckily, Chandler was with me in my office this morning when I heard the crash, and the screams of Mark coming from the living room. We were both in the clear, and there was no way he could say Chandler or I had done it. When the high pitched curses seemed to subside, I ventured out to find Mark sitting at the dining room table with his treetop angel in pieces before him. It seems that the angel had done a header off the top of the tree. "I told you that tree was leaning.", I offered. "Shut the hell up!", Mark said, obviously not appreciating my helpful advice.

The last I saw of the angel, it was laying on the table next to a bottle of glue, still in pieces. The tree continues to lean in a threatening tilt, directly towards my big reclining chair, because Mark insists it will be okay. Meanwhile, I have observed Chandler herding the cats under the Christmas tree, probably planning to blame the next catastrophe on them.