A selection of miniature trees is needed. Not next week, not tomorrow, NOW. They shall be arranged in rows, yes, but shall not be uniform in type. Some will be coniferous, some deciduous, others petrified, a few shall bear fruit. One will be dusted with artificial snow and bring good spirits to all who are near.

These trees are not to be eaten, nor to be part of any elaborate window display. They are for our edification so that the forest romp following our supper shall not be done in ignorance.

Or fear.

And those at the table who insist that if one listens oh-so-carefully and precisely and all the stir of the rumpus room shall still, one would hear the song of a microscopic Bird of Pleasure issuing forth from our tiny orchard, shall be regarded as fools who do not know when delight has been taken too far and have their names silently erased from the guest list.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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