When Elves Attack by Tim Dorsey

“Then let’s not waste any of Jim’s time! Coleman, chair!”
    Coleman kicked one out for Jim to take a seat at the table.
    â€œI can’t sit, Serge! I have to go.”
    â€œLook out for the train,” said Serge.
    â€œWhat train?”
    A little locomotive whistle blew, and a model train came around the bend from the kitchen, toward Jim’s feet. He hopped back out of the way and fell into the chair.
    â€œThat’s better,” said Serge.
    The train circled the table and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. City passed the joint to Jim, who waved her off without words. Country took a swig of whiskey from the bottle and grabbed the roach.
    Jim started getting up. Country pushed him back down and handed him the bottle—“Ease out. Your stress is a buzz kill”—headed for the kitchen and more ice.
    Jim tried passing the bottle toward Serge, who pulled back his hands. “You’re on your own with these women. I’m sure your techniques are rock solid, but these are the chicks I’ll be dealing with, so I need to see if your interaction with them passes the acid test.”
    Jim turned and handed the bottle toward Coleman.
    â€œMy hands are busy.” Coleman broke down the walls of the gingerbread house.
    Country came back with clean glasses and ice. “Jim, here’s yours.”
    â€œBut I rarely drink.” He turned toward Serge.
    â€œDon’t look at me. Acid test.”
    Jim looked back up at Country and held a thumb and index finger a quarter inch apart. “Okay, but just a little.”
    She poured four fingers and splashed a fifth on the table, then jammed the rocks glass in Jim’s stomach and wandered away, upending the bottle.
    â€œFeet,” said Serge.
    Jim looked down and swiftly raised them. The Orange Blossom Special rolled under his chair and chugged out of sight into the bathroom.
    â€œSo, Jim,” said Serge. “What’s your first tip to someone starting a family? Begin with the biggest thing!”
    â€œActually the biggest thing is the smallest thing.”
    â€œJim,” said Serge. “You’re talking Zen warrior shaman shit. Is the Eastern jazz what it’s all about?”
    â€œNo, I mean that the little things are what make your wife happy and your marriage solid, because after a while it isn’t fairy-tale royals’ weddings; it’s commitment to each other’s small considerations during the marathon of raising children.”
    â€œExample?” said Serge.
    â€œNot tracking stuff into the house.”
    Serge’s head jerked back. “You’re blowin’ smoke up my ass. That’s number one?”
    â€œNot the least speck of dirt. They spend so much time vacuuming and mopping.” Jim raised the glass to his mouth for a sip. More like sticking in the tip of his tongue for a taste. He made a face. “It shows you appreciate her efforts.”
    City took a big hit—“He’s on the money”—then blew Country a sensuous shotgun that gave all the guys boners.
    Country exhaled. “Don’t wipe your shoes, no pussy.”
    â€œJim,” said Serge. “You’re in the zone! Dr. Phil can’t carry your jockstrap. What else?”
    Jim raised the glass for another tongue test. Verdict: not bad. He took a moderate sip. Then another. Then he finished the drink. A look on his face. He began coughing and slapping his chest.
    â€œYou all right?” asked Serge. “Go down the wrong way?”
    â€œNo, just burns.” His eyes bugged and watered.
    â€œWhiskey does that,” said Serge.
    Jim looked at his watch. “What time is it? I need to be getting back.”
    â€œI don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” said Serge. “Just sit still a moment and gather yourself.” He offered a tissue. “You got a little spit coming off . . .”
    Quiet around the table except for an