Spot was celebrating Christmas again for the first time, because his parents had forgotten his birthday this year and so he was _still_ one year old. Poor Spot! Anyway, he was looking forward to opening his Christmas presents, which might, just _might_, be wonderfunful niftadacious zowie-wowilicious enough to make up for the span of misery he'd endured this extended year. He stared at the tackily-decorated tree his parents (Spom & Spop) had erected in the family doghouse, and at the stack of present that was under it. True, a stack of one was probably the sturdiest form of stack when it came to topple-resistance, but Spot sort of wished he were getting more than one present.
Last year, Spot's Christmas had been ruined because he'd unwrapped Tater twister after Tater Twister, and then some other dumb ol' present that had bit his face off or something. He couldn't quite remember, because it had been very traumatic, and it varied randomly every time he re-read his diary entry for that bleak day. As he unwrapped his sole present for _this_ year, Spot had a shimmering fear that perhaps this holiday season he would again be at the whims of Fate as some mythical, godlike presence overseeing his life chose a number from one to six.
PLEASE CHOOSE A NUMBER FROM 1 TO 6 AND PROCEED TO THAT ENDING.