The Five Small Tyrants of the Mantle

Written in the style of humorist, David Sedaris.

I did not buy them. They arrived courtesy of Hugh, who thought our fireplace required a small, silent, highly judgmental brigade of wooden Boston Terriers. A complete, themed set, he insisted. An absolute tyranny of unsolicited cheer.

On the far left, the Soldier, jaw glued shut, unable to crack a single nut, judged the world with cold menace. Beside him, the King, perpetually astonished in his ermine cape, demanded space and reverence he hadn’t earned. Next, the Drummer—too happy, too ready to produce the silent, maddening rat-a-tat of Christmas obligation. The Guard stood stiffly, with his gun propped on his shoulder, silently informing me that I had failed to arrange the surrounding décor correctly.

But the final figure, the Baker, clutching his pathetic rolling pin, was the most tragic: a small, wooden symbol of every rock-hard holiday treat I’ve ever been forced to consume. Five little sentinels of domestic defeat, cracking the veneer of my sanity one long December night at a time. I prefer the garage.

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