Due to some minor legal difficulties involving my preschool business I left the states for a few years, and went back to the Old Country to live with my mother's family. I was not very impressed with them. They seemed like a bunch of retards, much given to strange eating habits and pointless rituals. Uncle Happie had an extensive collection of manacles, which he proudly displayed for me daily. My big moonfaced identical triplet cousins, Hugo, Dewgo, and Lieugo seemed to have the worst brain damage, habitually eviscerating stray cats and butt-fucking each other. Aunt Euphoria was always sharpening knives, when she wasn't mixing raw meat and beef blood into the rather runny omelets she was so fond of eating. She also muttered to herself all the time, often remarking to no one that we had to find a nice plump young man to have over for Christmas dinner. Seeing as it was only April, I rather thought she was being a little premature. 
     But it was only a week later that I awoke at 3 AM to yelling and thumping and other general commotion downstairs in the dilapidated mansion I now called home. Sleepily I stumbled down the big curving staircase to investigate,  just in time to see my relations gleefully dragging (with some difficulty) a rather fat boy of perhaps 12 years down into the basement. Visions of the sport I had enjoyed back in the U.S. came to mind, so I followed downcellar. I had never bothered to explore there, and to my surprise and pleasure discovered that it was well equipped with shackles, restraints, an examination table, and a tidy little cell with inch-thick bars situated over the drain in the center of the cement floor. Hmm. Perhaps my kin weren't as moronic as I had thought. This looked like fun! 
     My three hulking cousins held the kid down while Auntie cut his clothes off with a straight razor. Then they strapped him to the table for a little light surgery. Uncle Happie used a very clever device to both immobilize his head and force open the jaws. Then by snaking an arthroscope down his throat, Uncle deftly severed the lad's vocal chords while I watched it all on the monitor. Excellent idea! If I had thought to do the same, that little girl would never have been able to scream, and I'd still be enjoying the immature fruits of Rhode Island's ... But I digress. 
     Uncle next slit open the boy's scrotal sac and snipped off his testicles, which he place on a dish. Auntie immediately ran them upstairs to the refrigerator. She had yet another weird omelet for breakfast a few hours later ... Uncle carefully sewed the empty bag back up, and to my disappointment, locked him into the cell without allowing me to enjoy him. 
     From that morning the routine at the old estate changed. Aunt Euphoria spent most of her time in the kitchen, boiling rice and potatoes, and baking cookies and cakes in the walk-in Krupp oven. My bovine cousins trouped up and downcellar constantly with plates of food and stacks of empties. Months went by like this. The boy had nothing to do in his boring cell except eat, so he got fatter and fatter. My frustration mounted steadily during this time. Here was a delightful neutered delicacy -- all naked and pink and helpless in his rolls of fat -- and I couldn't get at him. Uncle had the key well hidden. I repeatedly lured the boy over to the bars for some tidbit of candy, but could never get him to turn around and bend over. Eventually he refused to come near me at all. 
     Finally Christmas arrived. We indulged in all of our time-honored family traditions: the bear trap inside the fireplace hearth, the electrified wires strung across the rooftop (we used to employ sharpened stakes on the roof before electric power), the barbed-wire and cow-eyeballs wreath on the front door ... Christmas time is indeed the best time of the year, with so many fun things to do. We had three crosses set up in the livingroom -- strings of multicolored lights wrapped around them -- with a live monkey carefully nailed to each. 
     Christmas morning was special, too. I got a fifteen-bottle poison assortment set, a pair of Solingen daggers, and my sister in Alabama sent me her most recent abortion -- a fetus in a mason jar, pickled in moonshine. I love opening presents. Though it was a drag to get more than one of the same present from relatives with similar imaginations. What was I going to do with FIVE pairs of handcuffs? 
     But Christmas dinner was best of all. The centerpiece roast on our ancient feudal-era feasting table was magnificent I have to admit: the boy looked and smelled wonderfully delicious covered with a pineapple and brown sugar glaze, and with an apple in his mouth. 
     It's so nice to have a young man over for Christmas dinner.