The Naughty List

It was Christmas Eve, and Dave and Laura Johnson, the parents, had been caught up in their petty misdeeds—ignoring holiday traditions, skipping out on family dinners, and even sneaking in a few choice words for Santa himself.

Christmas morning arrived, and their son, Timmy, raced to open presents, where he found something unexpected—a massive set of drums, complete with cymbals and all the trimmings. Timmy’s eyes widened, and a grin spread across his face.

Timmy’s enthusiasm knew no bounds as he dove into his new gift. He was thrilled, of course, but his parents–not so much.

His parents, still sipping their coffee and rubbing sleep from their eyes, were greeted by the distinct sound of a snare drum pounded with joy. The house shook with the beat as Timmy began what would surely be a lifelong obsession with percussion.

Dave and Laura quickly realized what Santa had done. They looked at each other, the horror dawning as the relentless drumming filled every corner of the house.

“Is it too late to trade him for an air-guitarist?” Dave groaned.

Clutching her mug, Laura muttered, “I knew we shouldn’t have skipped that family dinner.”

They tried to reason with Timmy, but his new drum kit had cast a spell, and all he heard was music.

“Timmy, sweetie, maybe take a break?” Laura suggested, her voice barely audible over the racket.

“No way, Mom! I’m in the zone!” Timmy shouted back, his eyes gleaming with manic glee.

As the day wore on, the relentless noise only increased—Timmy didn’t stop. He played “Jingle Bells” in his way, pounding away like there was no tomorrow.

His parents, starting to regret their behavior over the past year, finally surrendered to the noisy chaos. By the time the sun set, they had learned their lesson: perhaps they should have been a bit nicer.

“Remember when we complained about the neighbor’s dog barking?” Dave said, half-joking, half-sarcastic.

Laura nodded, massaging her temples. “Next year, no more sneaking cookies before dinner.”

As the night wound down, Timmy finally grew tired and retreated to bed, leaving the drums behind. His parents, exhausted but strangely satisfied, shared a look of understanding.

“Next year,” Dave muttered, “we’ll be on our best behavior.”

Laura, still rubbing her temples, sighed in agreement. “Absolutely. And maybe earplugs in the stockings.”

And as for Santa? Well, he’s always watching.