This is a mini-miserable story written by Jilly Gagnon & Mike MacDonald.
You stay on the sofa, just out of sight of the carolers. One false move and they’ll be able to spot you through the window.
The banging on the door is unrelenting.
“Come on, open up and let us sing to you!” yells a male voice. It sounds weirdly...pedophilic. “Don’t be the grinch of loneliness!”
All of the carolers chuckle at his jab.
The grinch of loneliness? That’s not even a real thing. But man, it cuts deep.
“We promise we won’t Home Alone you!” a voice that sounds like middle-aged marital distress calls. More chuckles. As if they could Home Alone you in your own house? That misses the entire premise of that film.
“This is the ghoooooost of Christmas fuuuuuuuuuture,” a ridiculously deep voice howls. Did they bring Barry White along? “Ooooooopen uuuuuuuuuuup!”
Nice try, asshole. You have a family.
You stay put, but you can still hear them shuffling around your porch. Soon, the tone switches to worry.
“Maybe something happened? Like carbon monoxide poisoning!” the loveless marriage voice says. “Stoves go into overdrive this time of year, what with all the baking and cooking.”
“Let’s call 911!”
Oh god, they wouldn’t actually…
Fifteen minutes later an ambulance pulls up. At this point, you have no choice but to play along, at least until the EMTs get you past the gauntlet of cheer.
Once they’ve loaded you in, you open your eyes.
“Oh good. You’re awake,” says the EMT, before shining a flashlight directly into your retina. She frowns, obviously confused, and checks the cuff on your arm. “What happened, sir? You seem to be fine.”
“Well, I...I was sitting on the couch, when…”
The EMT looks out the back window of the ambulance and spots the carolers on the sidewalk.
“HANK! IT’S ANOTHER CAROLER DODGER!” she screams at the top of her lungs.
The carolers definitely heard that.
“Oh, dangitall, he IS a grinch of loneliness!”
As the ambulance pulls down the road, you sit up. The carolers are running after it, shaking mittened fists over their heads like a poorly-armed pitchfork mob. You feel like you’ve snagged the last spot in the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
…that is if you didn’t actually need that lifeboat for any reason, and it almost certainly wouldn’t be covered by your insurance.
To read more about the Choose Your Own Misery series click here.