For the last month I've casually tried to kill our Elf on the Shelf with no avail. Turns out I landed the elf with the longest shelf life. But lo and behold, it's December 26 and the party's over for this little a**hole.
I bought the elf in an effort to create a new holiday tradition for my boys following my divorce. We opened the box, unpacked the elf and read the enclosed book. The story goes that each night while the boys are sleeping, the elf heads back to the North Pole and returns before morning. When the kids wake up, they must search the house to find the elf in its new hiding spot.
After the first night with our elf, I walked in the kitchen, noticed she was sitting in her original spot, and realized, damn, I forgot to move her before I went to bed. The kids were already awake happily eating cereal. They seemed to have forgotten, too. This new tradition was off to a rocky start.
The second night, I forgot to move the elf again and felt pangs of guilt. As I approached the elf in the morning, her beady little eyes glared. I could see she would not be ignored. I vowed to do better on day three.
I'd heard many friends share stories about posing their elves. One had placed it alongside a Barbie on the kitchen island. She arranged the two as if they were drinking maple syrup out of straws. Others made elaborate scenes involving M & Ms, Cheerios and cotton balls. On a daily basis I lose my car keys or forget why I walked into a room, but at a minimum, I thought I could handle changing the elf's location each night.
The third night I spaced and completely forgot about the irritating elf. When I came into the kitchen, the next morning, it was obvious the feeling was mutual.
This was too much pressure and I didn't like the elf's hostility. I decided to deep six that chemically-imbalanced shelf elf. In hindsight, I probably should have donated it to a starving family or something, but I tossed that skinny little bitch right in the trash and went about my day.
Early the next morning and still half asleep, I came through the kitchen to let out the dog. As I turned the corner, my heart skipped a beat. The elf was back and dangling from the light fixture. My innocent attempt to create a new tradition had morphed into a deranged Edgar Allen Poe Christmas special.
I cut the psycho elf down and tossed it back in the trash.
On Saturday, I awoke to a blood curdling scream. My youngest, having an early morning pee, discovered the little bitch elf floating face down in the toilet.
Sunday my oldest found her in the fridge. She had stabbed herself with a pickle fork.
Having a late night snack Monday, my middle son found her with her head in the oven.
Enough was enough. I bound and gagged the little elf-devil, drove to the Kwikie Mart and tossed it in the dumpster. Done. Finito. Buh-bye, freak show.
The next morning, as we backed out of the garage, I heard a crunch under the back tire. Sure enough, as I glanced up the drive, I spotted my tormentor, smiling and giving me the finger.
Well, it's December 26th and I'm bringing out the big guns: peanut butter and Big Ben, our St. Bernard. That elf has quite a journey ahead of her.