On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: six geese a-laying.
“I don’t think you love me enough,” said my true love sternly, while leading the new acquisitions in an orderly line through the house and out into the garden, “so I’ve bought you six geese.”
“And what the hell am I supposed to do with them?” I asked, as I gazed down at the parade making its way past my feet.
“Well, if you love me — if you really, really love me — then you’ll be able to get these geese to lay golden eggs.”
“But that’s just the stuff of fairytales,” I replied, bemused. “It’s not real.”
My true love fixed me with a cold, withering stare. It was a look I’d seen too many times before — like when I was ordered to bring back the pot of gold from the end of the rainbow, purchase a unicorn as a birthday gift, or provide undeniable proof that fairies did indeed live at the bottom of the garden. This was no joke. I could not afford to fail, because failure would mean losing the love of my life.
An aerosol can of gold spray paint was my salvation. The next batch of fresh goose eggs that I retrieved from the garden, instead of finding their way into the kitchen, were taken into the garage and sprayed a wondrous shade of rich, lustrous gold. Once the acrid smell of freshly applied paint had dissolved, the deception was complete.
My true love was ecstatic and wept with emotion on seeing the six golden eggs lined up proudly on the mantlepiece. After kissing me on the forehead and thanking me for proving my eternal devotion, my true love retreated to the moonlit garden. A few minutes passed before I heard the anguished screeching of one goose, then another, then four more, as their throats were cut through with a carving knife.