In one of my last pre-Hitler entries, I asked a critical question and then left you hanging with the answer. Oopsie. Let’s resume, shall we?

Question: Will Santa bring me a Harley for Christmas?
Answer: Santa’s a funny little fucker.

Did I get a Harley? Yes I sure did, only Santa phoned it in — he brought a Harley telephone:

Isn’t it … um … great? It’s not quite what I had in mind, but… Well, it is a Harley. Sort of. I guess. It goes “Vroom!” and the headlight goes on when it rings, so I’ve got that going for me. But… Well… No. No, I’m not putting this thing on my desk. I’m not going to answer a Vrooming phone, I’m not going to talk into the seat, I’m not going to anything with this phone. I guess I should have been more specific on my Christmas wishlist. Santa clearly needs a clue or three. So, for next year:

“Yo, Santa, I want a 2002 Harley Davidson Road King Classic motorcycle, please. A real one. That I can ride. That doesn’t plug into the wall. The color should be “Vivid Black.” It should have a 1450 cc Twin Cam 88 engine. It should have electronic fuel injection. It should have a tooled leather seat and leather-wrapped hard saddlebags. It should have a detachable windshield. It should have wire-laced wheels. It should run on gas. It should not be a telephone or a ring or a belt buckle or a cue rack or a plush toy or an umbrella or a T-shirt or an ornament or a mug or a tie or a mirror or a clock or mudflaps or anything with the Harley-Davidson logo on it but a real-life actual in-the-flesh motherfucking Harley-Davidson motorcycle! Get it, you fat stupid elf? Motor. Cycle. Thank you.”

Moron.

So, okay, I didn’t get the right Harley. I did get a whole passel of other stuff: two bathrobes, two pairs of flannel “lounging pants,” a shockingly large check from Beth’s dad, and an iPod. Ever since Christmas I’ve been lounging around the house in lounging pants and a bathrobe, dreaming of what to spend the Christmas money on and downloading songs into the iPod. It’s a 20 gig model and after ripping and downloading every CD in the house, even Beth’s stuff that I hate, it’s barely half full. Shweet. And then a few days after Christmas I went riding with El Steve, who gave me a beautiful pair of Harley-Davidson chaps, which look fabulous under the bathrobe.

So all things considered it was a pretty good Christmas for young Chuckie. Even the Harley phone wasn’t too bad — at least I got an entry out of it.