Twas the final round of the annual Ornament Tournament in the village of Pullet Cutlet Hamlet. A mere quartet of competitors remained, and for the first time ever, both Mogey and Smush had reached the Festive Four.
"Competitors," announced Ferd Bulbous, the harsh but fair Head Judge who was known to all as "the Mule of Yule." "Congratulations on reaching the Festive Four. You all know the rules: One ornament each."
"Yes, Mule!" shouted the foursome of contestants.
"A standard conifer branch must be able to bear the ornament's weight," Bulbous continued.
"Yes, Mule!"
"And nothing flammable."
"Yes, Mule!"
"Yes, M-- wait, what?" Mogey stammered.
"These are the rules of the Ornament Tournament. Let the Festive Four commence! We shall begin with you, young Smush."
Confidently Smush stepped before the judging panel, set down a skunk-sized parcel covered in a red cloth, and whipped the cloth away with a dramatic flourish. The crowd gasped.
"Tell us about what you have here," suggested Bananas O'Toole, the second judge at the table.
"Was anyone else expecting a skunk under that cloth?" whispered the Mule of Yule.
"My newest ornament is a photorealistic sculpture of Champ Cluckens," Smush explained. "The first chicken to discover Pullet Cutlet Hamlet and the main course of our beloved village's earliest Christmas dinner."
"Am I mistaken, or is the ornament glowing from within?" croaked the third judge, a soft-spoken goblin who went by the moniker of Clam.
"You are indeed correct, your molluskness," Smush replied. "I used a warm orange light to give Champ the reverence - and plate presentation - he deserves."
"Thank you, Smush," the Mule of Yule said. "Well done. Let us continue with the next contestant. Mogey?"
"Huh?" blurted Mogey. He'd been hunched over his ornament with his back to the judges' table. "Oh - right."
He strode forward, clutching in his hand what looked like a tiny metal rubbish bin on a string. Soot smudged his face and hands, and upon the floor where he'd been standing moments earlier, a pile of charcoal briquettes was visible.
"What have we here?" queried Clam. "And what smells like kerosene?"
"Well," Mogey said, "I'll tell you what it's not. It's NOT a working miniature trash can fire upon which one could roast delicious Christmas marshmallows."
"Of course not!" guffawed the Mule of Yule. "That would violate the rules of the Ornament Tournament. Not to mention the profound foolishness of hanging a trash can fire in a brittle fraser fir. Say, what's that behind your back?"
"Nothing!" said Mogey, chucking a box of matches into the crowd less subtly than a lego policeman bending down to tie his shoes.
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