The Grinch

He slipped into the first house—a tidy, gingerbread‑scented cottage where stockings hung in a perfect line, each one stuffed to the brim with candy canes and whispered wishes.“Another one,” he muttered, his eyes glittering with mischief. He bounded to the next home, then another, and another. The town’s Christmas spirit was vanishing, one trinket at a time, as the Grinch’s collection swelled.But there was a problem—one that rattled his plans as much as the jingling bells he’d pilfered. The Grinch’s backside, already notorious for being larger than his ego, had ballooned to an almost comical proportion. It was, in his own self‑deprecating way, “ten sizes larger than a regular Grinch‑tail,” a fact that made each step feel like a tiny earthquake.Every time he tried to shimmy through a narrow window, his rear end gave a reluctant wobble, a gentle jiggle that sent a shiver through the curtains and rattled the ornaments still hanging in the hallway. He tried to crouch, but his massive posterior would brush against the ceiling beams, creating a low‑pitched “thwap” that echoed through the empty rooms.