Godzilla comes to stay at our house every Christmas-time. He eats all the guests who come to sing songs and then gets indigestion because the songs were too saccharine.
He will not leave until he is shooed or corralled out of the house as if he were a herd of chickens being transferred to one pen to another by inner city lawyers. The lawyers desperately try to pen the chickens (avoid being eaten by Godzilla) in their very expensive Italian leather loafers on a floor that is slick with shit. There will be no happy ending to this scenario and it is the shoes that ultimately suffer.
Godzilla revels in breaking all the silver glass balls on the Christmas tree. As gingerly as he is able he plucks the shiny orbs from my tree, waiting for me to pay attention to him and then drops them, smiling as they shatter on the floor. Oddly he cringes when I yell at him, covering his skyscraper claws over his head. I want him gone I yell scream at him. I tell him I am tired of the blood and glass and bones and guts on the floor. I tell him there is no room for his size, his weight in my house. When the snow thaws I tell him he must leave. Angry and dejected, Godzilla swipes at the tree and crashes the whole shimmering thing over. Now pine needles are mixed in the gore on the floor as well.
When the snow thaws, Godzilla walks out. The happy carolers who were once Godzilla’s favorite prey no longer come to my house. I suppose their logic falls that if I got Godzilla to cry what will I do to them. Or perhaps they just like Godzilla better than me (eventhough Godzilla might gobble them up, I was sure to bite off their heads)
My husband places a large fainting couch and a plasma TV in the room that Godzilla once took over. We eat popcorn and drink Gin Slings while watching old Harryhausen movies.
Now I miss Godzilla.
He will not leave until he is shooed or corralled out of the house as if he were a herd of chickens being transferred to one pen to another by inner city lawyers. The lawyers desperately try to pen the chickens (avoid being eaten by Godzilla) in their very expensive Italian leather loafers on a floor that is slick with shit. There will be no happy ending to this scenario and it is the shoes that ultimately suffer.
Godzilla revels in breaking all the silver glass balls on the Christmas tree. As gingerly as he is able he plucks the shiny orbs from my tree, waiting for me to pay attention to him and then drops them, smiling as they shatter on the floor. Oddly he cringes when I yell at him, covering his skyscraper claws over his head. I want him gone I yell scream at him. I tell him I am tired of the blood and glass and bones and guts on the floor. I tell him there is no room for his size, his weight in my house. When the snow thaws I tell him he must leave. Angry and dejected, Godzilla swipes at the tree and crashes the whole shimmering thing over. Now pine needles are mixed in the gore on the floor as well.
When the snow thaws, Godzilla walks out. The happy carolers who were once Godzilla’s favorite prey no longer come to my house. I suppose their logic falls that if I got Godzilla to cry what will I do to them. Or perhaps they just like Godzilla better than me (eventhough Godzilla might gobble them up, I was sure to bite off their heads)
My husband places a large fainting couch and a plasma TV in the room that Godzilla once took over. We eat popcorn and drink Gin Slings while watching old Harryhausen movies.
Now I miss Godzilla.
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