While out Christmas shopping at Mall Of America with Our Spanky Gang of Little Rascals, who should we bump into but, Scrooge, Fezziwig, Fred, Bob Cratchit, Mrs. Cratchit,Tiny Tim, Jacob Marley main fictitious characters drawn upon under belly, of real life mid eighteen hundreds lowliest British (thermal unit) poverty stricken caste. Das scribe sketched out their soul full collective misfortune, without virtue, but plenti via a vice, which storied lives depicted (i.e. being penniless, dime a dozen, a day late, and dollar short penury) courtesy, sans prolific imagination of Charles Dickens “ Christmas Story”. They unexpectedly, uninhibitedly and unwittingly broke the binding loose after being bound within whirled wide web of make believe close to two hundred years. Freed from the paginated constraints (analogous to a prisoner, who broke free after long confinement to solitary confinement, when initially handed down life sentence for terroristic sabotage resulting in deaths per scores of innocent people), an utter lack of social graces immediately, plainly, and shockingly exhibited by various aggressive behavior. Crowd (then ground) control to Major Tom couched via heavy duty security details appeared helpless. The muddling, middling, maddening motley crue swarmed, rampaged, and quashed an attempt by the Police (who crafted a spurious Sting operation predicated on the baddest Beastie Boys Culture Club, who excelled at being Foo Fighters), which immediately appeared ineffective against a handful of raggedy, pesky, and nasty Marxist/Leninist lumpenproletariats. Helter skelter, mayhem and bedlam found these hoodlums, hooligans, hooting imps a indistinct English dialect. Even Tiny Tim showed braggadocio defying his lame physical state. Scrooge attested to be in seventh heaven, or the closest he would get. Despite total ignorance apportioned these anachronistic figments gross, heedless, insubordinate jubilant kooky lust (made manifest marrying narcissism ogling pricey quirky random tchotchkes. Any civility escaped filthy hands hoisting incredibly jealous mannikins. Sir real quite peculiar phenomena overtook natural mundane lives. The growing horde of astonished onlookers (under a sheltering sky) made haste unsure if the ghost of Marley will scare away oblivious buyers (eyeing various and sundry widgets, trinkets, thingamabobs, knickknacks gimcracks, gewgaws, fribbery, bibelots baubles) where (timid) Tiny Tim (who tip toed thru the Tulips) frightened aggressive, purveyors of said merchandise. Insult against ideology, modernity, reality took a giant leap, who of all people, but The Merchant of Venice made a cameo appearance issuing forth asper a tempest in a teapot, a dome mass scandal, and danced the night away with the Ghost of Christmas Past, where the hallowed purposelessness purchasing presents per perps, squirts, twerps, et cetera essentially the intended thread to weave warped wonderment of mine, but (dippity and Scoobie) doo to a very bad hair day, my ability to communicate in a clear concise manner compromised sprung extremely flat limp follicles that usually puff up on the head (as big as a Soundcloud) of this GoDaddy, who will help fend off feisty Goo Goo Dolls.
