I used to be a competent gift wrapper who created neatly wrapped gifts and bows. But as I aged, I lost patience and my wrapping skills took a bad rap.

 Today, my gifts look like they were wrapped by vandals on crack.

 I don’t understand why we invest so much time and effort to wrap a gift when it is going to be torn apart by the giftee.

 It’s like making my bed each morning. Why do it if I’m just going to mess it up at night?

 I’m trying to recapture the gift-wrapping spirit I had when I was younger. Each Christmas I tell myself “This year I’m going to get into the holiday spirit and make gift wrapping fun.”

 So, I set the scene: Put on Christmas music, light pine-scented candles, don a red Santa hat, get our dog to rest comfortably at my feet and lay out all the needed tools and materials on the dining room table.

 It’s no use. Gift wrapping has become such a hassle that my holly-jolly-Christmas wrapping quickly deteriorates and morphs into “Just put the friggin’ gifts in brown paper grocery bags and be done with it. Hell, ‘Feliz Navidad,’ my ass.”   

 To better understand why this occurs, I offer the following example of my gift-wrapping descent into hell.

 I pour a mug of eggnog, sit comfortably at the table and hum along with the 12 Days of Christmas.

 I start by selecting an easy-to-wrap boxed gift. No need to measure the paper. I can tell, just by eyeing it, how much is needed. I’m a pro. I cut a sheet off the roll and get to wrapping.

 “You got to be kidding me!” I cry. “How can the paper not fit? I eyed it. Must be cheap paper.”

 Next, I try the “it’ll never work” trick of moving the box around on the paper, hoping to discover just the right spot, which defies all laws of physics, which will allow the paper to cover the box. Wrong. I set aside the paper in my “mistake pile,” for use on smaller gifts.

 I measure and cut the correct size of paper, place the box in the center and bring the two sides of the paper together on the box top and hold them down with fingers on my left hand, while using my right hand to pull off a short length of Scotch tape, except I yank off six feet of feet of tape that curls over and sticks to itself and my fingers.

 “Ha. Ha,’ I say. “I sure wish those nine lords a leaping, were here a wrapping. This is sooo much fun.”

 I refresh my mug of nog with a strong shot of Captain Morgan (Hell, might as well do two shots. It’s Christmas).

 I pull off a correct length of tape, but I can’t get it to tear on the dispenser’s serrated edge. Now, I have a length of tape, with the dispenser dangling from it like a kite tail, hanging from my fingers. I angrily shake it off, sending the sticky mess sailing across the room where it lands behind a table. Fortunately, I have a second roll of tape for such emergencies.

 (For the record: Scotch Tape should be called “Botched Tape” and the public should file a class action suit against the manufacturer).

 I carefully remove several short lengths of tape and stick their ends to the table edge for easy access. I successfully wrap and tape the paper together and then execute that dope little trick where I fold the paper into triangles on the end of the box and tape them down. But the trick goes south when I can’t locate the second roll of tape. I frantically search for it, under the rolls of paper, ribbons and name tags, but find the scissors. I eventually locate the tape and lose the scissors.

 In end-of-my-rope anguish I shout, “Will someone PLEASE turn down that damn Christmas music? Who the hell thought it a good idea to let friggin chipmunks sing Christmas carols?”

 I tape down the triangles on the fifth or sixth try and search for the red store-bought bow with the adhesive backing, that I saw here just a few minutes ago.

 “Where the @#$# could it have gone?” I spew as frantically fumble around on the mess on the table searching for it.

 I decide, after downing my second mug of The Captain, I make my own ribbon. I cut two lengths of thin red ribbon and do another dope trick where I scrape the ribbons over the edge of the scissors to form them into festive curlicues. I wrap the ribbons around the box and tie them together in a handsome knot at the top (at least I think it’s the top, but who knows or cares, by now?) I hold down the curlicue with my thumb, grab one of the pre-cut lengths of tape to tape down the bow, but instead tape my thumb to the box. When I undo my thumb, I rip the paper.

 My “mistake pile” of paper continues to grow larger, as the rolls of paper get smaller.

 “Screw the bow,” I declare, as my Christmas spirit searches for more bottled spirits. I down a gulp of The Captain straight from the bottle.

 The table becomes more and more cluttered with paper scraps, ribbons, boxes, tissue paper, tape dispensers, markers and several Christmas cards I forgot to mail last year.

 In aggravated desperation, I use a clear roll of stronger and wider packing tape but nix the idea after spending 20 minutes trying to find the invisible hidden end of the tape to unroll it. (Another class action suit, in the waiting).

 “Hell with it! I’m using duct tape,” I mutter as I notice that I forgot to put the “To:” and “From:” tags on two wrapped gifts, and I can’t remember what’s inside the boxes or who they are for. I have to unwrap them, identify the contents and rewrap them.

 The background music tells me of chestnuts roasting on an open fire and Jack Frost nipping at my nose.”

 “Right about now I’d like to roast Jack Frost on the friggin fire,” I vent in aggravation.

 I angrily jump up and step on the dog’s tail, sending her yelping and rocketing across the room with several wads of tape stuck to her fur.

 I go to the kitchen to refresh my drink and discover that The Captain bottle is empty.

 “’Ho, ho, ho’ if friggin figures,” I mumble as I pour myself a stiff scotch and bourbon on the rocks.

 I return to the table, which now resembles a landfill (there are even gull circling overhead), slump into my chair and survey the scene.

 “Why is it so *!@&% difficult to tape a piece of paper to a box?” I ask myself.

 I finish my drink and do what I should have done hours ago:

 Go to the supermarket and get a bunch of brown paper bags. While waiting and thinking to myself “It can’t get any worse,” a lady behind me says, “Sir. Do you know you have a crushed red bow stuck to your rear end?”

 I embarrassingly remove the bow and shake my head in “I give up” resignation, as my brain turns into a sleigh bell jingle-ing, ring ting tingle-ing goo.

 Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.