Category: Christmas

Edna loved to bake gingerbread men every year.
But one year, she rolled out the dough, cut out the gingerbread men, and decided that she’d rather make a fancy winter scene.
So, she mashed all but one of the men back into a dough ball, rolled it out, and sliced out some walls, a roof, and a chimney.
She baked all the pieces, built a house, glues it together with frosting, decorated it with gumdrops and candy canes, and set the gingerbread man in front.
The gingerbread man trembled with fear, haunted by the tormented souls of his unborn brothers.

For Christmas, my daughter says that all she wants is justice.
The man that raped her.
The cops who didn’t believe her story.
The lab technicians who contaminated her rape kit.
Her lawyer, who botched the case. And the prosecutor who called her a whore.
The jury… the whole jury.
And the judge who let this circus happen under his watch.
The reporters, damned vultures. The silent witnesses.
“Will revenge do?” I ask her, as I press the button.
A flash of light. The searing wind. The tell-tale mushroom cloud.
Never fuck with the daughter of a nuclear weapons technician.

Every week, the church tries a different theme.
One week, it was a pirate theme. Everyone came to church on Sunday dressed as a pirate.
Or a parrot. Or a bar wench.
The church did a space theme. A medieval theme.
The sermons strayed from the religious to the secular.
And then, music. A deejay spinning tunes.
From week to week, the church turned into nothing more than a costume party.
Two drink minimum, the weddings rocked, the funerals rocked.
And then, one day, it was gone.
Vanished without a trace.
Now, on Sunday, I watch football, or sleep late.

The holiday season brings holiday parties, which brings holiday party invites.
You can’t say “bring your husband or wife” because that assumes a marital relationship.
You can’t say “bring your significant other” because who is to decide who is significant or not?
You can’t say “plus one” because you may have more than one in your life that you consider a plus, and it’s unfair to have to decide who among them is the plusiest.
After the community activist consulting fees and legal costs, all that’s left in the budget for the party is…
Fuck it. Here’s a fruit cake.

When is Santa’s birthday?
Technically, he doesn’t have a birthday.
Most years, they pour him out of the cloning tank around January.
It all depends when the previous copy keels over from a heart attack from the stress and all those damn cookies.
Because, let’s face it… that fat bastard isn’t going to win any fitness awards, right?
Once the job’s open, they pour out the new Santa and brainflash him with memory RNA and hypnosis tapes.
Birthday, Clone Day, who cares? As long as he lasts until Christmas and hands out a bunch of gifts, nobody gives a shit.

Why do kids write letters to Santa Claus?
Because he’s deaf. Can’t hear a damn thing.
No point in having a phone line.
As for email, there’s a group of elves who print out emails and then bring them to Santa.
As for how he reads letters in different languages, he’s got elves who can translate them for him.
And computer network elves to hack global databases so he can find home addresses, whether they’re a boy or girl, and if they’ve been naughty or nice.
Or rich. Because, if they’re rich, they can buy that shit for themselves, right?

Cedar Falls used to hold a Christmas Cookie contest every year.
Tom Peterson rigged up his 3-D fabricator to print cookies.
He loaded it with dough, and he printed out a batch of intricately-woven cookies that looked like crystal spiderwebs.
Ten minutes in the oven, and they were ready.
Everybody who tried his cookies said they were amazing, and he won first prize.
Later, Tom clutched his stomach and moaned.
Seems that he didn’t clean out the toxic epoxy compound from the printer before he put in the dough.
The survivors now just decorate a tree in the town square.