There's nothing tackier than a television basking a cathode fireplace around Christmas time, but I spotted this old Zenith spitting embers and burning logs at the junta-like Scotch and Sofa in Prenzlauer Berg (do not go for the scotch selection, which is meager: go to make out in the cavernous, sofa-strewn basement), and for once did not seize up in a full body seizure, the paroxysms of which formed my body's natural allergenic reaction to low-brow Yuletide schmaltziness.
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