So, my true love decided he’d send me some drummers for the final windup to this Christmas fiasco, but, blessedly, the drummers (and even better, their drums) were traveling from parts south and got stopped at the border—something about a suspicious package taped to a foot pedal. Whatever. A dozen drummers would have been the proverbial straw, but just the mention of drumming tonight caused the whole motley crew to begin banging something or other—a large group of them started slapping the table in syncopation, and that got the night rolling. The rhythm was rollicking, the dancing divine, and Lord Byron was drunk out of his gourd. Now that’s what I call a party.

To all of you who have been checking in on this blog, thank you so very much, and here’s to a very Merry Christmas to all…

(by the way, I didn’t start the drawing until after the party, so it got very late indeed. It’s not entirely finished, so do check back later for the final version)

Well, things are improving vastly as we get closer to the big day. A menagerie of dapper gentlemen in their leisure-time finery appeared at the door, and who could send them away? As much as I like the smell of pipes, I didn’t fancy a house full of smoke—and I figured I was due for more heavy negotiation. But I needn’t have worried—turns out they have no interest in tobacco, just the outfits. Puff on, boys.

See the entire countdown…

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So, my true love somehow came up with the notion that he should give me ten lords-a-leaping today. I know, weird or what? Anyway, it’s apparently rather tough rounding up nearly a dozen leaping lords of the wigged-and-triangled-hat variety—he found four and had to supplement. Fine, I suppose—I mean, at this point, what can I do? I suspect some of them will at least pair off with the dancers and calm them down a bit—those chiquitas hold a grudge.

Do geese eat flies, by any chance? If not, I may request one more leaper in the form of a frog. The last thing I need is maggots in the fruitcake.

Shall I have a contest to see who can identify all the lords first? Let’s see, what can I offer… I know, how’s about a lovely assortment of fowl, four buckets of fresh (still warm—yuck) milk and a bushel of pears. You pay for shipping.

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All right, I know my Christmas spirit seems gravely lacking at this moment, but please, put yourself in my position. If you came home from a long day at the office to find your living room filled with dozens of birds of varying sizes, shapes and decibel levels, plus a foppish pig constantly hitting on said birds, and a few milkmaids yodeling, you may also demand the flamenco, funk and bagpipe music be turned off. One would think that at least if my true love was going to make as selfish a turn as to gift me with a bunch of booty-shaking ladies, at least he would have the decency to pick a lane and go with it. But instead I came home to a cacophony of competing dance music in addition to the avian symphony, and I simply had to say enough. No more dancing.

It’s a little like Footloose around here.

This morning it appeared my true love had heeded yesterday’s request for some domestic help when a troupe of maids approached—but then over the horizon came the cows. So, what, he thinks I’m going to allow eight methane-spewing beasts of burden into my makeshift aviary? After much heated debate and a few serious threats of the slaughterhouse variety, I negotiated for only one. Predicting the poor cow’s inevitable and frenzied over-milking, I slipped her some of the valium I was prescribed to cope with all the squawking—and she appears to be holding up nicely.

I know what you’re thinking, there are only five maids, but there’s a reason for that—I recruited the other three to take over on guano duty. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas after all…

This is day 8 in a 12-day countdown, here is the rest of the series…

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So, what have we today? Swans. Seven of them. Swimming. Sure, this is a lovely spectacle, but at some point they’ll get out of the water. And when they do, look out—swans are ornery. Have you ever been to Switzerland? They chase tourists along the picturesque lakeside paths. Hilarious to witness, sure—when it’s happening to someone else—but I shudder to think what a lamentation (that’s right) like this moving in unison might be capable of. I don’t think my cat will fare too well against this lot, what with their protective eyewear and super-toned cores. I don’t want to be too negative about these gifts, and yes, I suppose it is the thought that counts, but that sentiment begs the question: what IS my ex-true-love thinking?

I’ll tell you one thing, if my true love wants to have any chance at winning me back, he’ll get me some hired help to deal with the accumulating bird feces.

Well, now isn’t this just what you’d expect from a questionable true love? Give him an inch, and he takes a mile. I eased up for a bit yesterday, let myself get back into this whole 12 days of gifts deal, and sure enough, today he snaps right back to the birds. Where did this whole idea of giving birds as gifts come from anyway, seriously? Half a dozen geese in my bed does not a Christmas present make. They had better not be laying eggs in my sheets, I would imagine goose yolk leaves a nasty stain…

So, my true love, after veering way too far down the bird path, appears to be making a strong comeback—it is duly noted that a little threat can do wonders in the true love department. I can think of no finer vehicle for five rings of gold, baby. Plus, this fella will keep the birds in line, if you know what I’m sayin’.

The backwards 12 days of Christmas countdown continues, fifth day and holding…

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All right, seriously. Not only are there four more birds, but they’re calling birds. Talk about adding insult to injury—I strongly dislike the phone ringing even when it’s someone I want to talk to, and I assure you I do not want to talk to these four loudmouths. Especially the one on the cell phone, that’s where I draw the line. They had better not be calling me, and if they are, they damn well better not be calling collect.

Who on earth would consider this a gift? My true love is quickly transforming into my true pain-in-the-arse.

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Birds again. This is getting tedious, my true love. You obviously don’t know me very well if you think I would rather receive a total of six birds, three days running, than a few raccoons or rabbits or pigs in the mix. Let’s shake things up a bit, don’t you think? (you’re nodding in agreement, yet I get this sinking feeling there are more damn birds on the way tomorrow.)

The third installment in my backwards countdown, which happens to be this week’s Illustration Friday theme.

Also, a question related to a recent post by Saucygrrl: was there ever an outcry to change this verse to “three freedom hens”?