...you're made of something toxic.
...the star on your head is my bumhole.
...you look like you were decorated with the things a homeless lady could spare.
...in the second example you're inside me.
...maybe it's being glossed over but I'm using you for sexual pleasure.
...the brushy aspect of your plastic branches, plus the fact that your top branch is hard and long, allows you to serve the purpose of reaching my A-spot with great efficacy.
...while I'm sitting on you, I can achieve climax by getting a second party to give me a phat reach around with my Rudolph hand-puppet.
...I'm got to the point where I can hold on, for just a second, and get my partner to turn the puppet on, so that right when I'm about to finish, Rudolph's nose lights up.
...that's when the tree is pulled out of my anus at great speed, and the mag-stripe of pleasure in my ass registers a gooooooood time.
....and to complete the process I sing 'fa-la-la-la-la' the way Bill Murray does in Scrooged.
Short Answer: Don't be sad, Christmas Tree. Everything goes up inside me eventually. That's a secret promise that gets made the moment you cross the threshold of my house. Ask anyone.