Someone help me please.
I ordered one of those Elf-on-a-Shelf dolls to add a little magic and whimsy back into Christmas. Every night after little Raylan and Winona were tucked in, I'd pose it in a different spot: on the mantle, over the entertainment center, peeking behind the bottle of Jack Daniels. "That elf's been sent from the North Pole to keep an eye on you," I told them. "Every night he reports back directly to Santa."
They loved it. How they looked forward to spotting the Elf in his new hiding place. And every night, I put him in another spot.
That was four years ago.
The second year was even better than the first. That's when I began to get creative. There's boocoos of websites showing creative ways to pose your Elf: lifting weights made of two marshmallows stuck on a straw, "watching" tv holding the remote, inside a box of cereal with his face peeking through where Captain Crunch should be.
The third year, frankly, I was worn out. I began to get macabre. Sexual positions with My Li'l Pony. A crime scene investigation with a tiny chalk outline and Barbie's severed torso. It got out of hand.
Now we're four years into this rat hole, and it's starting to get ugly. Head first in the garbage disposal with a suicide note. Soaked in gravy next to the dog's water dish. Raylan and Winona go to bed crying every night. They're terrified where they'll find the Elf's mutilated body next. But the sucker won't die. He's indestructible. His little plastic face won't crack, he's too big to flush, the self-cleaning oven barely scorched him.
Someone, anyone, please, help me.