What, you guys don't have any stories on Christmas eve? Worried about coal in your stocking?

How's this one?

I have potted rooks off Glenthorne Manor. That's right. The very same.
I can offer evidence, as I mistakenly left tuna cans, Pabst Blue Ribbon bottles, and the remnants of a bucket of KFC along the path cut through the silvery wood. A regrettable development, as unfortunately, I had to make a hasty retreat mid luncheon.
I narrowly escaped detection by the Laird himself! I immediately recognized him, as he was driving a minivan accompanied by a couple of labradors. He stopped near a fen, and tumbled from the luxurious Chrysler.
There was no mistaking him, as he wore a jaunty Borcelino, a faded tweed Jacket, and smoked very strong smelling cigarettes.
I hid in some bushes, and could hear the jingling of the famous "unlucky cartridges" in the pocket of his well worn tweed coat. They must be very lonesome by now. He swept past me striding with great purpose, carrying "The Beaseley" broken over his arm. I was stricken by fear and awe. I was convinced I was either in a Laudnum taupor, or an opium dens dream room. It was like seeing Jacob Marley clanking across my bedroom post a meal of kimchi and port poached green pears.
Thank God I was down wind, as I'm sure the Labs would have licked me to ribbons if they had caught my scent.
When the danger of detection had passed, I regathered my wits, and stole quickly off the grounds, my pair of rooks, and succulent coney secreted in my poachers bag.

I stewed the rooks in an old iron pot, accompanied by a melange of root vegetables, and a snifter of cognac. I celebrated my good fortune, and enviable powers of cloaking as I stretched out before my fire, PBR in one hand, and Borkum-Riff stoked cobby in the other.

Merry Christmas.

Out there doing it best I can.