 Okay, this is all for Kevin, right? Yes. Could you see my fireplace? In the video? Is my fireplace in the video? I don't hear anything exactly. Well, I don't want to distract. Don't you need to keep the music? Okay, that's not music. Okay, are we ready for reading of The Night Before Christmas? The Night Before Christmas. So many people don't know that the origin of this song is a little bit in dispute. Who wrote the song? There's a controversy. You can look it up on Wikipedia or the poem. So, Clement Clarkmore or Henry Livingston. Not quite sure who wrote it, and they're still controversial. The families are arguing. I wrote it. Alison? Oh, okay. I was just pointing my belly. So, The Night Before Christmas with an ever-so-slight. With a... Ever-so-slight. Macintosh Bias with credit and apologies to Clement Clarkmore or Henry Livingston, whoever wrote it. It was The Night Before Christmas when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a trackpad. Stick with me here. The earbuds were hung by the chimney with care in hopes that all things eye-maker would soon be there. The nocella castaways were nestled all snug in their beds while visions of eye-pads danced in their heads. And pot feet in their kerchief and eye in my cravat had just sold down for a long winter Skype jet. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the keyboard to see what was the matter. Away to the windows. I flew like a flash drive, tore open the shutters, and nearly did a nose dive. The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow gave a luster of brushed aluminum to objects below. When what to my eyes seemed very bizarre, but a miniature sleigh in eight tiny cars. With a little old driver with whom El's hobnob, I knew in a moment it must be Honda Bob. More rapid than 4G, his vehicles they came, and he tweeted and shouted and called them by name. Now Accord, now Civic, now Fit and CRV. One element on Ridgeline, on Pilot and Odyssey. To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, now drive away, drive away, drive away all. As, as rightly as that before the reality distortion field endowed, when they meet with an obstacle mount to the cloud, so up to the house top the vehicles they flew with a sleigh full of Apple products, and Honda Bob too. And then in a twinkling I heard with a squeal the skidding and sliding of each little wheel. As I drew in my head and was turning around, down the chimney Bob came with a bound. He was dressed in coveralls from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with oil and soot. A bundle of SSDs he had flung in the Scotty vest, and he looked like a geek who was extremely obsessed. A wink of my eye and a look not too pious soon gave me to know he had a Macintosh pious. He spoke not a word, but texted his concern, and filled all the stockings and then hit return. And a laying his finger aside his levitation app, a command to his iPad, up the chimney ASAP. He sprang to a sleigh and his autos did they bristle. And away he go flew, as if shot from a missile. But I heard him exclaim, as the poem prescribes, Happy Christmas to all, and please stay subscribed. Yay! Where's Tesla? She didn't make the video. It wasn't quite as clean as I did it on camera. I loved it. That's so creative. How did you come up with all that? And even better. Oh, and there was a little bit of extraneous background noise. So the green is the original poem, the red is the modifications.