Who could quibble over a detail or two during this fine festive season when Canadian girls traditionally pluck the dark hairs from their breasts leaving the soft fuzzy ones so that they will look their best when they dress up in their red capes and orange coats to saunter out through the snow into the barns and gently bang frozen dung off nativity sheep with manure forks while keeping an eye out for blackhead-free woodcutters who might pass by and grab them with one hand while swinging their axes in the other and trot them off into the woods keeping in step with the rhythms of half-dead-ted yet leaving a sneaking suspicion that someone or something is eating grandma and a strange notion that the wonderful aroma of food really isn't old butteredballs roasting in the oven.