Okay, Nutcracker family. I've just sat in on your freaking Christmas party for, like, the freaking 15th time. Fun. Nice digs and togs. But there are some things I wonder about you people. Tell me why I shouldn't call Child Protective Services on your asses:

(1) The creepy old man, Herr Drosselmeyer, freaks out your daughter and makes her cry. You don't give a shit. You actually sort of egg him on, and let him keep on playing with her.

(2) You let Drosselmeyer hang out and give her a Nutcracker. This is code for "I am a child molester, here's a present, now lick my balls."

(3) You have rodents running rampant in your house. Big ones. Eeew.

(4) Your daughter has clearly taken more LSD than all the Beatles put together to work up that "dream" about whirling dervishes, mouse soldiers, sexy peacocks, and a prince with a fine package. Where have you been? Have you not spoken to your child about the dangers of drugs?

Honestly, I don't know what's wrong with you people. Merry fucking Christmas. Pass the eggnog.