HO. HO. HO. (Terry Pratchett: Hogfather)

Dødens fortolkning av julebudskapet er noe for seg selv. Et utmerket førjulstradisjon.

HERE IS A BRIDLE FOR YOUR PONY, AND A SADDLE, AND A RATHER STRANGE HARD HAT AND A PAIR OF THOSE TROUSERS THAT MAKE YOU LOOK AS THOUGH YOU HAVE A LARGE RABBIT IN EACH POCKET. “But we can’t have a pony, can we, Euffie, because we live on the third floor…” OH, YES. IT’S IN THE KITCHEN. “I’m sure you’re making a little joke, Hogfather,” said Mother, sharply. HO. HO. YES. WHAT A JOLLY FAT MAN I AM. IN THE KITCHEN? WHAT A JOKE. DOLLIES AND SO ON WILL BE DELIVERED LATER AS PER YOUR LETTER. “What do you say, Euffie?” “’nk you.” “’ere, you didn’t really put a pony in their kitchen, did you?” said Heavy Uncle Albert as the line moved on. DON’T BE FOOLISH, ALBERT. I SAID THAT TO BE JOLLY. “Oh, right. Hah, for a minute—” IT’S IN THE BEDROOM. “Ah…” MORE HYGIENIC. “Well, it’ll make sure of one thing,” said Albert. “Third floor? They’re going to believe all right.” YES. YOU KNOW, I THINK I’M GETTING THE HANG OF THIS. HO. HO. HO.