The butter does not have a Merry Christmas.

After being placed upon the hot surface of the bread, the butter said, "Hey, I'm really on a roll here," and then he chuckled to himself, but just for an instant before quickly falling quiet.

The reason for his silence was because, truthfully, aside from the in the literal sense, the piece of butter was very much not "on a roll." He had spent the lion share of his life as part of a hardened stick, doing nothing but dreaming of all he might accomplish once released from his prison inside the refrigerator door.

Now, though, he began to fear that perhaps he had been naive, perhaps he had imagined an impossible future for himself. Looking down, he could see his base melting, the liquid confirmation of his own fleeting mortality. No, he realized, this was all his life would ever be, just a piece of butter rapidly being absorbed by a dinner roll, which would soon itself be eaten, digested, and forgotten forever.

Merry Christmas.

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