Daddy, will Santa really know where we are? Don't worry, you know how we used to leave out cookies? Well now we have those on our phones so that the Jolly Fat Guy and every advertiser this side of the North Pole can track our every step in real-time. Santa, the bereaved Nigerian Prince, and the single-blade razor subscription box will all find us just fine.
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Unless it's a one-eyed astronaut. Then it's going on the blog.
After this the hotel will be quite grateful to go back to dealing with errant tigers.
That late-night taco tour in Mexico City seems like a lifetime ago. Pass the tequila shot to the right they said. Now it's a milk bottle.
High roller? That's where I roll up in a comfy sheet at 8.30pm and hit the lights not the Marquee nightclub downstairs.
No one was ever shamed for craving a drippy egg sandwich at 6am.
Don't worry kid, he's vegan.
A container park with a playground in the middle, the surest sign yet that the hipsters are breeding.
Dad I made the Williamsburg Bridge. Nice work, now build a Starbucks and a Dunkin in a faux warehouse.
See, Santa has been tracking us all along. Or Amazon has, same thing really.
Set course for the Tatooine System.
Keep an eye out for Jawas, we don't want them flogging off our carseats to some Mandalorian in need of a rear-facing restraint.
When the Tusken raiders arrive it's ok to tell them Mommy has more meat.
Death Valley? Is this where they built the Death Star?
Lucky stormtroopers can't hit a sandcrawler door.
Daddy, is this an oasis? Yes it is son, and did you know you can book them on Hotels.com? Keep that in mind next time you're stranded in the desert.
