There is a collective groan from men across America on the Saturday night after Thanksgiving. A grievance that can only mean one thing: time to put up the damn Christmas tree on Sunday morning. If we’re lucky, that is all we have to do. Some of us have to put up the lights, too.
The rest of the day following is spent itching our arms (why in God’s name do fake trees with plastic silicone bristles make us itch?) and wishing we could lay on the couch, watching football or some stupid action movie, minus listening to the Sound of Music soundtrack.
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