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This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 106

By: Rich Cromwell
10 min read
dion gillard / Flickr

They slid down the chimney and shimmied into a hallway. There, they found a door ajar. In it, a pair of sisters sat, one on the bed and one on the trundle.

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Wade wasn’t sure why he was on top of this house wearing a rainbow afro wig. But that’s where he found himself, getting ready to navigate a chimney with a fat man. It seemed a bad idea, much like the chunky, tangy tartar sauce he ate with his fried fish dinner. It was so tangy, so chunky, so gross, so unnecessary, such a poor choice. Somehow, he persevered.

They’d arrived via moped. Wade rode in the sidecar. Their speed topped out somewhere around 37 mph. Now it was time for some breaking and entering and, possibly, a very slow getaway. It was a contingency plan.

They slid down the chimney and shimmied into a hallway. There, they found a door ajar. In it, a pair of sisters sat, one on the bed and one on the trundle. The sisters stopped their conversation and glared at the intruders.

Wade formulated a plan. They’d slip off, quietly complete their mission, then fold the toilet paper ends into triangles like the housekeeper would. With that, the sisters would know they weren’t insane, at least not like that, and that they’d actually experienced visitors.

Santa, he was down with that plan. Positivity coursed through his veins; it was disgusting, but apropos.


Anyway, we should head off.


Wade was thinking logistics.


And planning his escape.


He also had goals. Lofty ones.


It was then, from around the corner, that danger appeared.


And like that, it was gone.


Wade and the fat man froze as a car drove by slowly. Too slowly.


From one of the dark bedrooms, they heard a noise. Maybe they’d roused a delightful little child. No, they hadn’t.


Santa spoke, inviting the person inside the room to join them.


Wade offered his two cents.


Santa and Wade hustled back up the chimney and to the next house. They weren’t prepared for what greeted them, though it was one of the easier requests Santa had heard.


Then they heard these words and decided to head to the next house.


A police cruiser rolled by; surely it was coincidental.


They ducked behind some bushes just to be sure, then hopped atop the next house and slid down the chimney. There was something really amiss about this house, and it wasn’t just the voice drifting from a hole in the floor.


There was also the matter of the décor.


As they backed out of the possibly haunted, definitely ugly bedroom, they saw the glow of a computer screen coming from the room across the hall. They debated talking to the person inside, but decided against it.


There was a flicker coming from a hallway table, but no smell. It was time to move to the next house.


If the yard ornaments were any indication, it was gonna be a good house.


Sure, there was an ominous note rather than a traditional list, but they didn’t let that deter them.


The kid who greeted them as they headed toward the tree was also a tad unnerving, but she had pretzels and bourbon, so they let it go.


Mom was also out of bed. They’d picked a bad house to creep into, apparently. Fortunately, she seemed occupied.


The little girl again spoke to them.


They heard a phone call taking place in another room. Okay, they had really misjudged this house. Also, prudence suggested they move on before they got sent to the dark web.


As they headed to yet another house, still in search of a suitable tree and a roast beast to steal, they saw a woman roaming the streets. Maybe they’d picked the wrong neighborhood. Whatever, they forged ahead.


From across the street, they heard some crashes. Maybe someone sliding down some icy stairs and getting hit in the face with a bowling ball. They decided to leave that house alone.


For when they descended into their next chosen house, they discovered their luck might be changing. On the countertop, there was a slow cooker. Success? No, it was a Jell-O mold.


Wade yelled at Santa to watch his step. Santa completely ignored him and tripped over one of the camels in the Nativity. Wade wanted to feel empathy; he didn’t.


In a guest bedroom, one family member was furiously trying to finish her Christmas preparations. She tossed a viper at Wade, who caught it and put it on like a scarf.


There was also this fact.


In any case, they loaded up their sacks and headed to the next house. Had they stolen a cat and a Jell-O mold? Perhaps. This wasn’t the time for such questions. There were more important inquiries to be parsed.


Besides, this wasn’t a buddy adventure, this was about business.


And business is sometimes painful.


Really painful.


Wade found himself wishing for an out.


Such an out wasn’t in the offing. Probably.


Wade’s hands were cold. For this, he was prepared.


He wasn’t prepared for this.


Or that no one appreciated his viper scarf.


Wade and Santa headed into the last house on the block. They had scored some loot, though not as much as they’d hoped. The last excursion didn’t start on a positive note.


They were also keenly aware that they were being watched.


And that the watchers weren’t benevolent.


They gathered all they could from the final house, from firewood to the tree to some Precious Moments figurines to some tubs of yogurt to a jug of economy wine and strode out into the night. As they did, they noticed the flakes falling around them.


The duo hopped into the sleigh they’d left at the end of their route and took off, taking account of their haul. Although their expectations were low, there were some surprises. There was the homemade jam, the glitter-encrusted drawings, the squeaky toy intended for a dog, and a cashmere sweater. Wade stared Santa down and laid claim to the last item.

For if there’s one thing that a Christmas Eve crime spree was about, it was personal enrichment. The fat bastard was supposed to be spreading cheer, not stealing it, and Wade wasn’t about to let him forget that it was going to be a merry Christmas, come hell or high water. He put on the sweater and sat back, popping Tylenol and thinking about his chainsaw and the loose newel.

Richard Cromwell is a writer and senior contributor at The Federalist. He lives in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, three daughters, and two crazy dogs. Co-host of the podcast Coffee & Cochon, you can find him on Facebook and Twitter, though you should probably avoid using social media.

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