This Christmas marks the end of a great era in my family. A meaningful, time-honored tradition has crumbled to pieces and swept itself into the Atlantic Ocean.

Two years ago my Mom gave me a Wacom graphics tablet for my birthday. When Christmas came around, she and my step-father, Warren, made it clear to me that, to use their own taunting words, I wasn’t getting shit for Christmas. We had some laughs about this and moved on.

On Christmas morning, there were a few small presents under the tree for me, including one box that ended up having a piece of paper in it with a picture of my tablet and a message that said “paid in full”. There was also one medium-sized box that was farely heavy and clunked around when it was shook. When I opened it up, the clunker turned out to be a floater. They had lied to me; I had, in fact, gotten shit for Christmas.

Well, they weren’t quite that cruel. It was actually a bunch of fudge that had been squeezed into the shape of a sewer submarine.

That night, my mother asked me to take a bag of M&M’s up to Warren, along with a bowl to pour them in. She said that Warren loved M&M’s, and began to conspire with me a provocative plan. I would open the bag and bury the poop deep into the candies, so that when he poured them into the bowl, it would come flopping out into his lap. So I proceeded up the stairs to his office. When I offered Warren the M&M’s, he was as happy to receive them as my Mother said that he would be. However, although what came next should have been expected, somehow I just didn’t see it coming; before he poured any candies into the bowl, he asked me if I would like some, and extended the bag towards me. I wasn’t sure if Warren was on his guard, so I didn’t feel safe in telling him no. I slowly extended my hand, and Warren began to rattle and shake the poisoned bag, coaxing the contaminated candies into my hand. Miraculously, the roll of rectum refuge held its position and remained concealed amidst the colorful bait. I accepted my share of candy with more thanks than Warren knew, and backed away slowly as I watched him pour the candies and expel the impure thing straight into his bowl. Then I ran…cackling wildly, of course.

It’s pretty much assumed in my family, that if you play a joke on someone, they’re going to get you back. It’s also assumed, that if you get someone back for a joke that they played on you, you better be on your guard. After my little retaliation, I began to keep an eye out for where Warren might hide this lump of ludeness. I ended up finding it…in my suitcase; so I promptly wrapped it in a ziploc bag and placed it under Warren’s pillow.

The point of this little psychotic poo-pong party was obviously to be the person not in possession of the poo by the time I left, but it was also intended to rub said poo in said opponents face, so simply hiding the filth would not do.

I didn’t find it again after that, but it’s not like I could’ve turned their house upside down or anything. My little brother John, however, was a different story; he didn’t exactly flip their furniture, but he looked a little harder than I did, I guess, because that evening he found it in the freezer.

I suppose that any normal human being would’ve found satisfaction in throwing this cursed charm away, leaving the adversary without any retribution, and putting an abrupt end to this spiraling episode of insanity. I chose to stir the shit up a bit more. So the next morning, before I left for home, I went into the garage and put the lincoln log behind Warren’s steering wheel, just in front of the speedometer. Then I grabbed all my stuff, loaded it in my car, and locked all the doors, leaving Warren with a bad case of constipation. I win.

I said my sentimental goodbye’s to everyone, including an ambiguous handshake with one clearly disgruntled Warren. I hopped into my car and waved as I backed out and drove off, leaving my worries, and my clunky Christmas present, in the hands of my assailants.

Warren never knew what hit him. He was left holding the same crappy present that he and my Mom had devised to stick me with. Warren had developed quite a shining reputation of being a very clever trickster, a reputation that he had acquired from his father, and one that I had just put a very large dent in. From now on, he would be known as the man who could play a good joke on anyone but me…

…And that was the daydream that I was having when I got half a mile down the road and looked up to see my radio antenna bobbing irradically about, having been heavily burdened by an awkwardly large, bagged turd that had been rubber-banded tightly to the top of it.

I had to laugh, not only out of appreciation of Warren’s enginuity, but also, and perhaps equally, out of a great feeling of chagrin. I had been bested with my guard completely down, and I wasn’t about to let him get away with it. So I stopped the car, ripped the wretched waste from my antenna, and spun the car around for one final showdown.

When I turned the corner onto my Mom’s street, she and Warren were still standing outside with my little brother, having rightly assumed that I would be coming back as soon as I noticed the teetering turd. I couldn’t waste any time; I quickly roll down my window and prepare for launch. In the meantime, Warren is running headlong toward the car. I toss the weapon of ass production high into the air and towards the house while the car is still in brisk motion so that I can quickly make my escape. I’m speeding off and the terrible tube is plummeting to the ground. It isn’t the most clever of victories, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to take that foul thing back to Pensacola with me.

Just as I think I’ve finally got the last laugh, Warren, in one smoothe motion, catches the damned thing in midair and sends it flying right back into my window.

I had to hand it to him. That was good. It would be a shame to make another round and try again. It was better, I thought, to admit defeat and give the guy credit. For the time being, at least.

No, that surely wasn’t the end of it. This mad exchange went on for at least another year, every time we got together, through my marriage and into the next months, until this fecal candy was nothing but a bunch of crumbles in a plastic bag. I was still the one who ended up with it last when the foolishness finally ended once and for all, and that only because Hurricane Ivan swept the crumbs away with our refrigerator. I didn’t even think to take it with me to Ohio when we fled the storm; that was, of course, the last thing on my mind at the time.

This year, I asked my Mother what she wanted for Christmas, and the only thing that she would tell me was, I quote: “I want it all”. So I have a large, heavy, clunky package all wrapped up for her. This time there is a jug of a certain kind of liquid laundry detergent waiting for her inside. I’m not sure how this lunacy will commence; it’s going to be awfully hard to throw a gallon of cleaning fluid back and forth.