As part of my routine, every morning I consult my trusty OUIJA board to find out what the day will bring. Here was today’s message:
This holiday season…the greatest gift you received…was the gift of…patienJESUS CHRIST WILL YOU COME ON ALREADY?!!
It was a cold Winter’s night but the tree glowed with the light of at least 87 bulbs. He carried the children upstairs and tucked them into their beds, always an endeavor on Christmas eve. Yes, they were restless with excitement, but also because his children were already grown adults and borderline obese—if that pesky Department of Health body fat index chart was to be believed.
He kissed them goodnight and sat there smiling as the Rohypnol he slipped into their glasses of Dr. Pepper took effect. As they adorably snored like two Toro™ riding mowers, he tiptoed back downstairs to wrap their ridiculously overpriced gifts and place them under the tree that had been in the family since the mid-1970s.
Yes, its white aluminum foliage had yellowed a bit (not unlike the phlegm that one expectorates on a chilly eve such as this), but the children howled in protest when he even suggested that they search for a replacement. Unless that was just the coyotes. It was so hard to tell them apart ever since the children gave up shaving. Right after they gave up looking for jobs.
As he slipped and tumbled to the bottom step, he saw him standing there by the tree. Saint Nicholas himself! Unless that was just the concussion talking.
“Ho Ho Ho!” the jolly man in red bellowed, “You know you’re on my bad list this year.”
“You have no power over me,” he replied “For I am Jewish!”
“Shhhh. So am I,” whispered Santa. “I’ve been doing this since the garment industry went belly-up. Can’t beat the hours.”
He thought about it for a moment. “That explains the absence of pigs in ‘The 12 Days of Christmas’! And lobsters! And talk of meat and dairy in the same meal. Now it all makes sense!”
“My boy, I do believe the Christmas spirit is burning brightly in you now,” Santa chuckled. Either that or the chili he ate earlier, he thought. But before he could utter another word to the old elf, Santa was gone. As was his 47-inch LCD flatscreen TV. “You should have bought plasma, you cheap bastard!” he heard Santa shout from his sleigh.
And so he trudged through the snow to get a ladder, some extra large garbage bags and shovel. Those reindeer were up on the roof for a while. Well, he called it a “roof”. Santa merely referred to it as the Christmas litter box.
It’s not such a bad tree, Charlie Brown.
There is no menorah at the house in which I am staying; I never felt more naked in my life.
Also, totally not wearing any clothes.
“It’s really not a bad little tree, Charlie Brown.”