Dolores' Story -- A Christmas Tale

The sun has just risen in Billfordstown. Dolores awakes to find herself moist with excitement; last night father told her that this Christmas was to be the greatest of her young life. Flashing out of bed in her flannel jammies, she hurries towards the stairs. Her intensity grows as she hits the first step. After the fifth stair she begins to fly, her feet hitting every third one faster and faster. She kisses the living room carpet with a dull thud, her head bounces once before she is still again. One eye slightly cocked, she sees the Douglas Fir full with its needles bent left slightly under the Gothic weight of colored balls, lights, tinsel and angels. Dolores pulls herself up to her feet and sees the single bright red wrapped package. She stalks towards it like a barnyard mouser as her father enters the room in his fuzzy paisley sweater and announces, “It’s Christmas.”
Dolores takes this as her cue and pounces upon the package, snatching it up in her soft little paws. With primal violence, she begins pulling and tearing at the ribbon and tape, teeth bared in excitement. Finally the wrapping is off and she stands above the plain brown box, panting.
“Open it,” says her father and Dolores gently removes the lid. There is a pause and her father settles into his plush Papa chair. Dolores squeals with delight as she jams her hands into the box and pulls out a pair of beautiful, firm, milk-white breasts. “They’re just what I wanted,” she screams.
“Have your mother read the assembly instructions,” says her smiling proud Papa, rubbing his belly, “I’ll go get my tools from the basement.”