The Hensley family Christmas was always a volatile affair, but this year promised to be especially catastrophic. Aunt Carol, freshly divorced, arrived with a bottle of merlot she refused to share. Uncle Greg had already dipped into his “festive flask,” and the cousins were on edge from a brewing feud over a stolen fantasy football lineup.

And then, of course, there was the White Elephant game.

The rules were simple: everyone brought a wrapped gift, preferably under $25. But as usual, the Hensleys treated “rules” as more of a loose suggestion.

The first round started innocently enough. Grandma unwrapped a candle shaped like a disapproving cat, which she interpreted as a passive-aggressive jab. “I see someone doesn’t appreciate my real cat, Mr. Whiskerfluff,” she sniffed, glaring at her daughter-in-law, Debbie.

Round two escalated. Uncle Greg grabbed a package suspiciously resembling a six-pack. When it turned out to be artisanal root beer, he muttered something about “hipster nonsense” and immediately stole the disapproving cat candle from Grandma, who retaliated by throwing a hard candy at his head.

By round four, tensions were boiling. Cousin Tara unveiled what appeared to be a bottle of bourbon, but upon closer inspection, it was a bottle of hot sauce labeled “Satan’s Tears.” Uncle Greg tried to claim it was meant for him (“It’s practically bourbon!”), but Tara clung to it.

And then came the box.

Nobody knew who brought it. It was suspiciously heavy, wrapped in duct tape, and adorned with a bow made from zip ties. Aunt Carol, already on her third solo cup of merlot, eagerly tore it open. Inside was a single brick.

“Well, this is stupid,” she declared, tossing it to the side. But beneath the brick lay a smaller box. And another. It was like Russian nesting dolls, except each layer seemed designed to mock the recipient’s patience.

When Carol finally reached the innermost box, she pulled out a note. It read: “You thought this was the end? Now, look in the tree.”

Everyone turned to the tree, where a glittering envelope dangled from a branch. Tara grabbed it first, tearing it open to reveal another note: “The real prize is in the fridge.”

By now, the room was in chaos. Uncle Greg knocked over a chair in his rush to the kitchen, Grandma started crying (“Why does Christmas always end like this?”), and Aunt Carol threw the brick at Debbie, missing her head by inches.

The prize, as it turned out, was a half-eaten fruitcake.

On top of the cake was yet another note: “Merry Christmas, suckers. Hope you enjoyed the ride. Love, Santa.”

Nobody admitted to being “Santa.” Uncle Greg blamed Debbie, Debbie blamed Aunt Carol, and Grandma accused Mr. Whiskerfluff. Meanwhile, the cousins took advantage of the distraction to raid the dessert table.

As the Hensleys sat amidst the wreckage of crumpled wrapping paper, spilled wine, and misplaced grievances, someone put on a Christmas carol. It was “Silent Night,” which, given the circumstances, was profoundly ironic.

Uncle Greg took a swig from his flask. “Best White Elephant ever,” he slurred, as Aunt Carol hurled a candy cane at his head.

The End