It’s been 10 long years since Bill O’Reilly declared that there was a “War on Christmas” by an alliance of those seeking to secularize the holiday and move it away from Christian roots.
Of course, this enflamed tensions at first with the neo-pagans, who pointed out that Christmas was the original Pagan holiday of Yule. Then Jewish people and people who actually celebrate Kwanzaa decided to promote their holidays in favour, and finally Muslims and atheists joined in to destroy a merry Christmas for us all.
We know the rest of the stories: the invasion of the North Pole, Jack Frost’s last stand, Santa Claus’s “Blood and Candy Canes” speech, the elven draft riots. Ten long years of conflict, brought to us by the same bastards that seek to scrub our Starbucks cups clean of Christmas cheer.
I arrived via reindeer-flown sled at the Green-n-Red Zone surrounding Santa’s Workshop in Christmas Village. I was told by a heavily-armed elf that I had to be “escorted, or else you could wind up in a situation hotter than an eggnog latte.” As I walked around, the holly-jolly atmosphere surrounding Christmas was dulled by the bitter siege, one most clearly exemplified by the elven families rationing Christmas cake — even with the risk of their children starving.
The workshop, once brightly lit by fresh red paint, was now bullet-riddled and chipped away by years of brutal warfare. I walked in on a press conference where jolly ol’ Saint Nick turned out to be much more irate in temperament. He yelled loudly, “a Jewish, African, pagan, Muslim, atheist, progressive, Illuminati alliance of heathens dares attack us and our beliefs! Thousands of years ago I almost lost a good pal, Jesus, to these same types of people. If it weren’t for resurrection, I might have never seen him again.”
Santa ended the press conference, taking a cue from former prime minister Stephen Harper not to answer any reporters’ questions.
After leaving the workshop, I lit up a cigarette, only for the explosion of a bomb to go off nearby. My elven body guards rushed me to safety while a nearby rabbi yelled, “Hanukkah now and forever, death to Christmas.” The guards shot at the man, flanked by an assorted other members of the anti-Christmas alliance. I got into a sleigh, which would take me away from the battlefield, when one of my bodyguards had his legs ripped apart by a grenade. In his dying words he whispered, “Tell my wife. . . the festive cups are coming back.” He died soon after handing me the address of the Starbucks she worked at.
I was transported back home, and descended into a post-traumatic state that would give Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump a run for his money. I drank vodka-spiked eggnogs like a bastard and had violent flashbacks during sex, only quelled by my girlfriend singing, “Let It Snow.”
I still haven’t visited my elven bodyguard’s wife, but when she asks how he died, I know what I’ll say. I’ll take a long sip on my eggnog and just repeat: “The horror, the horror.”
