Me and Jacob Marley

I feel like Charles Dickens must have been driving around his old neighborhood, visiting relatives, reviewing his past, bemoaning his present and considering his future when he wrote A Christmas Carol. Does that sound obvious? I mean, of course he was! He was sleeping on the old mattress he peed on  as a kid. He was 13. He was 9. He was 23. He was smelling the smells, walking the walk, talking the talk. He was crying, laughing and popping a boner all within a five minute period. Do you think that's weird? Check out this guy:

Old Charlie pulled this guy out of his own head to share with us. Is there a scarier motherfucker in the history of all literature? Come on. When else would such a character make an appearance than jingley-jangley, hippity happity, merry old Christmas with the very people who represent everything that you are and are not, so help you god. I'm telling you: he was at his childhood home, with a pile of unwrapped gifts he bought after standing in a sweaty, halitosis plagued line only a few hours earlier; he had turned his phone off so he wouldn't have to talk to anyone; eaten dinner with the same people who had changed his diaper as an infant and the new ones who would be changing it again in about 30 years, and then gone to bed at 7:30 because he was "jet-lagged", when this guy showed up in the doorway and tried to set him straight.  Forget about artistic creations, Charles was a reporter!