I'm not sure if it's the fact that they gave me their last cherished Dairy Queen Buster Bar or if it's the Do Not Resuscitate order they slipped in with my early Christmas presents, but whichever it is I'm left with the sneaking suspicion that I may never see my parents again.

Like most other water fowl, my folks migrate south for the winter (or, in their case, starting when my father can't wear his Hawaiian t-shirts anymore without getting a chill). Every year around this time I get to experience, in the span of one day, a mini version of numerous holidays that come to pass over the next few months. Yesterday my father swings by with bags of Christmas presents and Easter chocolates, not to mention a wide assortment of freezer burnt meats and other indistinguishable food-like products they're forced to pawn off on me in order to unplug their freezer for five months.

But I don't mind. I like presents.

"Now, don't open anything until Christmas time," my father says. "You know how upset your mother got when you didn't wait last year."

"Of course, dad," I reply. "Christmas presents are for Christmas. I'll wait. Have a safe trip!"

I, of course, leave a trail of torn wrapping paper from where the door to my father's departing car was moments ago to the couch in my apartment.

The first cause of concern is not so much the presents themselves, which consist of the traditional men's undershirts and plastic wrapped tools for my unopened toolbox, but the vast quantity. Instead of the normal package of five shirts it's 15. Instead of a wrench or two it's a 415 piece toolset incased in a large black plastic carrying case. I'm used to getting things I don't need, but why suddenly am I getting so much of what I don't need?

But that's nothing. As I'm skimming the customary five page "List of Emergency Numbers" that my dad creates with a disturbing amount of pleasure each year, a sheet of paper slips to the floor. Interesting, since dad usually is most careful in ensuring everything is securely attached. Leaning down to pick it up, I feel a certain level of dread creep up the small of my back. What could it be?

The paper is almost entirely blank except for two lines, centered both vertically and horizontally and in 12-point Times New Roman font, along with two signatures and a date near the bottom.

Mr. and Mrs. Pizza Diarist are not to be attached to a Live Support System in order to prolong life.

I don't know whether to type ROTFL or WTF?! Nice head trip. Their last ice cream bar, a 415 piece toolset AND a Do Not Resuscitate notice all in one day!

Oh, and what the hell is a "Live" Support System?!

Merry freakin' early Christmas to me.