My tree is too small.
My tree is crooked.
My tree’s shade of green is slightly off. I was expecting it to be Verdun Green, but it’s closer to Mantis Green, or Limerick Green, or (ugh!) Feldgrau Green.
My tree doesn’t smell like the one hanging from my rear-view mirror.
My tree isn’t merry enough.
My tree is shaped like a corkscrew.
My tree’s covered in needles.
My tree keeps bursting into flames when I so much as hold a lighter under it.
My tree has pagan origins.
My tree resents having ornaments hanging from it. Certain branches are bent into a distinct frown. It keeps dropping strands of tinsel, and not by accident.
My house got robbed and my tree did nothing. In fact, I’m pretty sure it gave the burglars the alarm code.
My tree doesn’t look good in my TikTok videos.
Every time we take a family photo in front of our tree, it blinks.
My tree’s left side is bigger than its right side and it’s self-conscious about it. No matter how many times I tell it that that’s normal, it brings up how Denzel Washington’s tree is perfectly symmetrical, and I have no counter-argument.
The replacement tree you sent is a completely unsatisfactory Sacramento Green, with some needles being Parakeet Green, Basil Green, and (barf!) Chartreuse.
My tree didn’t buy presents for anyone.
My tree wakes up too early. It scratches at the door, but when I let it out, within five minutes it just wants back in. It whines for plant food and sunlight. And then it pees sap on the carpet.
My tree hasn’t taken a stance on the “pineapple on pizza” debate. It’s too busy arguing about whether or not a hot dog is a sandwich, and it keeps leaning too heavily on the rhetorical device of using ad hominem attacks.
I know my tree judges me when I eat ahead on my advent calendar.
My tree keeps ranting about how “Bitcoin is the future,” even though I’m clearly not interested.
My tree’s top branch penetrates our angel. And it seems to be enjoying it. Worst of all, the angel also seems to be enjoying it.
Whenever I ask my tree how it’s doing, it answers “pine,” and then laughs and laughs. And then it says “Do you get it? Do you get it??” and yes, I get it, but I’m not willing to pretend a pun is a worthwhile joke.
The replacement tree you sent is Fiat Green, with hints of Envy Green, Gingivitis Green, and (shudder!) Pancreatic Green.
My tree has yet to foil the terrorists who’ve overtaken Nakatomi Plaza.
When my tree showed me what the world would be like if I’d never been born, it turns out everyone I know would be better off, apart from my second-grade teacher, who somehow wound up being color-blind.
When my tree was visited by three ghosts who showed it its past, present, and future, it didn’t change its behavior at all.
My tree caused my grumpy husband’s heart to grow three sizes, and now he’s dead.
My tree hasn’t inspired my children to appreciate my love for them. It hasn’t complimented my generosity, my hospitality, or my shortbread. It completely failed to make it snow on Christmas Eve, imply that Santa Claus might actually be real, or help anyone realize the true meaning of Christmas. It has filled my life with sorrow and hatred. So can you credit my account for next year?