Matthew Taylor

The same time every year I chop down a perfectly good tree and drag her into my home. Young, nubile and fresh smelling I dress her up and adorn her with ornaments and tinsel.  I make her the center of attention and pile on the presents.

In a remarkably short time she wilts, her beauty fades and her needles drop. I coldly observe her slowly dying. Unceremoniously I strip her of everything and kick her to the curb. There she lies motionless and  unnoticed  like an aging geisha, her time in the light a distant memory.

Ironically, she will be collected, ground into pulp and spread around innocent young saplings, encouraging them to mature into gloriously chop-able trees.

I think a great gift for Christmas would have been an eighty dollar Denver Broncos football jersey with a dry-erase board attached to the back between the shoulders.

So when my favorite player is suddenly traded to Chicago, I can just wipe him off.