I wanted to end the year with a sunset. So I drew a sunset. And something extra. See if you can find out what it is. It’s totally hidden. You’ll never really find it. Muahahahaha.

The Westboro Baptist Church has gained a certain degree of notoriety for protesting both military and celebrity funerals. Their attempts at linking all deaths to God’s condemnation of America’s laxity towards sin have, unfortunately, become hackneyed. Their most typical signs read: God Hates Fags or Thank God for Dead Soldiers. What’s most shameful about these placards is not so much the vitriol of the sentiments, but rather the missed opportunity.

So here is the result of Winslow’s request of Santa. You didn’t really think Santa would give Winslow Salma Hayek, did you? I mean, if he went to all that trouble to kidnap Salma Hayek, he would totally keep her for himself.

So. Here we are at last. You, me, maybe some snow, and this: the December 2011 issue of Defenestration. It smells like pine needles and pinecones and pine-scented floor cleaners. Very piney. Pinish? That sounds awful. But the smell? Ridiculishious.

You might be thinking, “This is a winter issue,” which is true if you don’t live in like, Australia, where everyone is wearing bathing suits and taking photos of themselves in bathing suits and them uploading them to [insert social networking site here] so all their American friends (they don’t have any other friends) can feel sad about everything. That’s a very Australian thing to do, I’ve heard. Anyway. You might be thinking “This is a winter issue,” which is true, only not really. In fact that’s wrong. Totally wrong. Nothing in this issue has anything to do with winter. In fact, if we were going to choose a theme for this issue, it would be poop.

It was April when it began.

It might have started earlier, but that was when I noticed the first sign. I was chatting to my mother, the phone in one hand and a pen in the other. It was only when I hung up that I looked down and saw, in thin black strokes, that I’d absently drawn a round little banjo.

And that’s how it started.