Pre-Sale: Happenings 19 Days Before The 12 Days Of Christmas

A partridge is treeless, having been evicted the night before from the apple tree for a rather unseemly act of moral outrage. Having spied the would-be lover sitting under the apple tree with a floozy definitely somebody else than the songster's "me," Danny, said partridge, took it upon himself to "dispense" his rather liquidy disapproval from above. He's currently lining up appointments with a realtor to check out possibilities in the peach orchard and hoping he doesn't have to sublet slum it on the other side of the tracks where the pears grow.

Two turtle doves are still in therapy, trying to decide whether they are birds or reptiles.

Three French hens, as per usual, are melodramatically going through the rather ennui-ish motions of negotiating the intricacies of the modern avian menage a trois. Presently Jean puffs Gauloises, Jeanette frets on the bidet, and Pepe dons his mime outfit for another day's labor.

Four colly birds are sitting on a telephone wire singing Leonard Cohen songs to squirrels running up and down the nearby pole.

Five cheap aluminum rings sit misplaced somewhere on a charlatan's shelf, awaiting the arrival of the gold spray paint, which has been back ordered at Marc's for like six long weeks now.

Six frustrated geese are wondering if they'll ever get any action while on the alert, as always, for down foragers.

Seven swans are plotting the ultimate Speedo Outlet heist.

Eight maids are lolling about the lounge watching the complete Bachelor series on pirated DVDs and trying to bully Les, their eunuch, into doing their chores for them. Les silently wishes he could grow a pair and report the maids' sloth to the boss.

Nine ladies, still despondent about not making the cut for this year's Rockettes line-up and eating too many Skittles, are a few days away from coming up with the idea of launching their own troupe, the Nono-Kettes.

Ten lords are knee-deep (and knee-aching) in boot camp, limbering up their limbs and glutes. As of this morning, thanks to the intensive training, there's a lot more bleeping than leaping going on.

Eleven bored plumbers fill their work trucks with the implements of their trade, dreaming of more exciting lives.

Twelve separate percussionists in twelve separate towns, bummed out about being unceremoniously sacked from their most recent gigs as mallet-wielding timekeepers for various bad cover bands, each post simultaneous ads on Craigslist that all boil down to this message: "Awesome drummer seeks like-minded dudes into Rush and TSO."

And wandering aimlessly from mall to plaza to his favorites bar to a stack of mail-order catalogs, one clueless, alliteration-adoring would-be true-lover, whose silly Romantic notions won't allow him to just go buy an Apple Store gift card and get it over with already, wonders just what in the hell can he get her this Christmas.