Every year, I run some variation on the same old survey: "What are the greatest Christmas presents you've ever received?"

Heading into 2011's holiday coverage, I kept asking myself that. By the time I was through, there was a list of dozens of things-I-got, all of which, for their own distinct reasons, made Christmas fantastic.

But some of those gifts were extra special. Not so much because of what they were, but for what they meant. In a few cases, a random, small doodad paved way for a lifelong obsession. In others, it wasn't so much what the gift did, but what I did with it.

I was surprised by how strong some of the memories were. As I've mentioned, our family tradition was to celebrate on Christmas Eve, and open the presents at the stroke of midnight. (We still do this.) It's hard to believe that I distinctly remember shredding midnight wrapping paper when I was five-years-old, but I swear, I do.

I wanted to revisit some of those great gifts, but stealing images from other sites and/or scanning pages from ancient Sears catalogs didn't seem to have the right amount of oomph. No, this year, I was going to go the extra mile:

And so, welcome to the first chapter of The Greatest Christmas Presents Ever.

I tracked down several of the best gifts I've ever received. Some are nearly as old as I am. As they arrived piece by piece, I carefully wrapped them and put ‘em aside. From now through Christmas at undetermined points, I will tear into each of these bastards, see how they hold up, and try to remember the when-and-why.

I'm insanely excited by this. I don't even care if it makes for boring blog entries. It'd be one thing to track down replicas or facsimiles, but these are the real deals. The exact same things I delighted in more than twenty freakin' years ago. Things that throw me right back into every Christmas Eve from 1984-1992. Incidentally, that spread doubles as the birth and death years of Sandy, our old dog.

During those ancient Christmas Eve celebrations, I had to fight tooth and nail to open a gift before midnight. The guidelines were strict. A solid one-two punch of crying and begging usually got me one pre-midnight present, but the rest, I had to wait for. The price for being the right age to really enjoy Christmastime was the utter pain of patience.

Now I'm old, and the clock can go fuck itself with its minute hand. I'm opening these babies whenever I want.

And I want to open one...right now.

I'll start with the smallest gift, because I know that the identities of the larger secret gifts will drive you mad and have you refreshing X-E constantly for weeks. Behavior like that stands to make me an additional seven cents.

What could be in there?

Shit. I wanted the tear to give you a hint, not completely reveal the toy inside. Pretend you can't read.

It's the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles "Wacky Action" Michaelangelo figure, from 1989. Folks, this is the first TMNT toy I ever got. The one that started it all. From fruitless searches for that elusive Mondo Gecko, to waiting in line for two hours to see a live-action Splinter with a completely different origin story from the cartoon-version Splinter, it all started with this Michaelangelo.

Christmas Eve, 1989. I was in the fifth grade. Even by then, the "material magic" was beginning to wear thin. When you're super young, everyone wants you to like your gift. When you get a little older, people stop caring. "He's a big boy, if he throws a fit, he'll look like the jerk, not me." I can still picture my aunt saying this, likely to the secret robot assassin who carried out her orders. (At the time, it was my working theory.)

Point is, by 1989, I really had no idea if it was going to be a good haul or a bad haul. If I made lists or suggestions, they were only for my parents. Word never spread. It isn't like today, when every kid in my family runs five perfectly organized online wishlists, complete with helpful rankings to help me determine if it's something they actually want or something they only added because two pages of bullshit didn't seem substantial enough.

That Christmas Eve already had a strike against it. I wanted a Nintendo Game Boy, and because kids are selfish brats, I had no doubt that I'd get my wish...even when my mother repeatedly told me that I wasn't going to get one. I can't recall if it was due to its lavish debut price or simply because it was sold out everywhere, but even when she dusted off the super serious "what I am telling you is true and I don't want to hear any shit about this" voice, I remained convinced that I was mere hours away from a Game Boy.

At some point in the afternoon, while everyone was upstairs eating parts of crustaceans, I zipped to the dungeon and inspected my presents. It was there that I found a shiny new bicycle, one that could have only been intended for me, covered with a blanket.

It was a great bike. Light blue with lightning symbols all over it. But I knew what I meant. Nobody gets a bike and a Game Boy for Christmas.

I'd like to say that I took the news in stride. I'd like to say that I was mature enough to not let the supreme disappointment of getting an expensive bike turn me into a raving asshole. The truth is, it couldn't have been more than ten minutes later that I was back upstairs, openly complaining about the "rotten present."

I was such. A. Bastard.

Midnight rolled around, but it was already tainted. The most magical moment of the entire year, ruined by the knowledge that my one "big gift" wasn't going to be a Game Boy. I opened my presents with the kind of passion usually reserved for my grandfather, who could get a pile of $100 bills and still reply with a disenfranchised "hmm."

By that point, having a bad Christmas was my goal. I would not accept a Game Boy-less Christmas as a good one, and I wasn't going to smile about it. To do so would've implied that not getting a Game Boy was okay. It wasn't. I was supposed to spend Christmas morning aligning blocks while Russian music blared through a thumbprint-sized speaker. God damn it.

One by one, gifts were open and tossed. Some were bad and some were good, but I would not let them change my demeanor. Only after Michaelangelo appeared did cracks break through my facade. I didn't want to admit it, but Christmas had been saved.

See, the Ninja Turtles were already hot, but I was a late bloomer. I'd only very recently gotten into the cartoon, but it hit me HARD. (Mainly because I adored Krang, which is why I still reference him so often.)

As my fascination started to blossom, all I had to show for it was a measly spiral notebook with a couple of TMNT villains on the cover. This Michaelangelo...was my very first Ninja Turtle figure.

It was from my brother. He got me this, a non-wacky "regular" figure (Donatello, I think?), and the TMNT Turtle Cycle, which conveniently fit two figures.

He watched me open that stuff, waiting for the reaction. I let him have it. "This is my favorite present all year!" He was thrilled, and it was true. But I only said it because Mom was in earshot. Fuck that stupid blue bike.

Even if you remember the old Ninja Turtle toys, these "Wacky Action" figures might seem foreign. They were sort of like the normal figures, but with wind-up action features that let them do silly things. In Michaelangelo's case (specifically, "Rock ‘N Roll Michaelangelo"), he had "rotating wrist action." It let him spin weapons in 360 degree angles for no good reason.

As soon as I saw this and those other two Turtle toys, I knew it. I knew that my little TMNT hobby was about to explode into a crazy obsession. Indeed it did. This kicked off years of hunting strange action figures and devouring every single thing with a TMNT logo on it. I could trace a hundred later memories to this one moment. Crunchabungas, pudding pies and those awful clip-on buttons Burger King used to give out in Kids Meals. It all started here.

Full disclosure: I've written small bits about this before, but in previous versions, I said that I got Wacky Action Raphael. I'm not revising history, here – merely correcting myself. Once I saw Wacky Action Mike's impossibly bulbous tongue again, I knew that this was the right one. How did I ever forget that tumor-like tongue?

Looking at the back of the card, I realize that I owned every single thing on it. Even the can of retromutagen ooze (toy slime), which came with a tiny glow-in-the-dark pre-mutation turtle figurine. Even more amazing is that I can remember exactly how I got each of these toys.

Leatherhead? At my birthday party, from a classmate, later that year. We had it at "Razzmatazz," which was like a giant and much sketchier version of Chuck E. Cheese.

Ace Duck? Kay Bee Toys. He came in an absolutely brutalized package, with a shredded card and a dented bubble. I would've normally skipped it, but it was the one and only time that I ever saw Ace Duck in stores.

Rocksteady? Actually, I don't remember how I got Rocksteady. And I won't be satisfied with anything again, until I do.

Since the Wacky Action figures were more expensive than the normal ones, they came with bonus jokebooks. In it, I'm immediately asked why April O'Neil put a flashlight into her mouth. I hope the boring sex joke connection wasn't lost on me back in the fifth grade.

Oh, and that Nintendo Game Boy?

I got it for my birthday. I was born in February, so I didn't have to wait long. Played Tetris for three days, and Revenge of the Gator for another two. Then I forgot I had a Game Boy until I wanted a Game Gear instead.

Such. A. Bastard.

Later this season: More gifts will be opened, and more stories about me being horrible will be shared.