Heathcliff furiously shreds Christmas presents open, looking for that elusive Nintendo 64. Owner-Man quips that they appreciated the wrapping paper, to which I retort that they did not, and that, in reality, nobody does. It's all a bunch of shiny paper with fat Santas and crucified Jesuses, and really, who the fuck cares about any of that? It's all about the gifts man, the $30 hunk of plastic with the lead based paint that takes the form of date rape when left in a cool, dry environment. And Nintendo 64s. Fuck the other shit though, and especially fuck the wrapping paper.