How to give yourself the gift of humiliation this Christmas

 I want my MTV!

When I was a kid, my favorite Christmas present every year was a stack of records from my Aunt Peggy and Uncle Charlie in Toronto.

That whole side of the family worked for the music business, which was perfect: I love music and - even better - it was the one gift I was allowed to open early (with my parents' permission).

One year, my dad was at work, suing people and doing whatever lawyers do, when the parcel arrived at home. I couldn't wait to tear into it, so I gave him a call to get the green light.

"Hey, dad, the records are here. Can I open them?"

"Who is this?"

"Dad - come on: can I open them?"

"I'm sorry - who are you?"

"Dad - stop being such a jerk!"

"Ummm-"

"Come on you bonehead. I want to open these records. Mom! Dad's being a jerk!"

My mother came to the phone. 

"Hello? Oh sorry: Kenton thought you were his dad."

I walked to my bedroom, hid my head under the pillow and moaned, knowing that I'd probably just called the Minister of Justice a jerk and a bonehead.

I opened the records that night. I sat and listened to them, but I couldn't enjoy them; they all sounded like humiliation.