What would you like for Christmas?

I'd like a roly poly Chinaman for Christmas. It wouldn't be too hard to find at this time of the year. You could probably find one in one of those strange shops tucked away somewhere in the red sign district of the city, you know, the streets with the lucky fertility red awnings elegantly gouged with what you would call a foreign language, now, I'm sure you must know what I'm talking about, those street shops that sell just about anything--no restrictions required--they sell anything from cheap, affordable, hardly durable sweat labouring goods to fresh, rotten produce and bile churning salt fish, raw squid, slippery slimy eel, eew. Walk down another row and you'll be forced to gaze at crunchy swine carcasses and glistening, glowing Peking ducks hanging on hooks in steamy display windows inbetween exotic restaurants, Karaoke bars, bubble tea shops, and the only store front window signs you'll be able to read in English: Electronics, CDs, DVDs, VCDs, LCDs. In the midst of all this sensory overload, in this celestial pool of swarming sights and sounds and stinks and smacking masticating lips, haphazardly you will walk upon a hushed silence, the kind only a library preserves, a reprieve from the din, and the clang, and the clong of foreign rise and falls cut short by your sudden awareness of your awful massive presence, rudely out of place, under surveillance for threatening (read the sign: if you break, you pay), for towering, overshadowing the fragile porcelain delicate serene faces lined up in the room, a terra cotta army of peace: laughing Buddha faces, squinty eyes, chubby rosy cheeks, ruby red lips, and rambunctiously giddy children clambering jolly bellies, gripping fat man tits out of pure elation. Now who wouldn't want one of those for Christmas?