“It’s just… I really can’t give this my stamp of approval, you know,” he said, scratching the back of his balding neck uncomfortably. “Misbehavior on this level… what will the people think?”

“I appreciate your concern, but I do not think they will be troubled – on some level, this will be exactly what they would expect from business and politics,” John Grant, the head of the Chamber of Commerce, returned smoothly. He was a short man clad in green with laugh lines around his mouth, but the spark in his eye was no twinkle – it was the glint of steel. “And you must agree that the energy crisis has reached new levels of urgency.”

Albacore glanced ruefully at the lantern which gave its baleful glow to the conference room where the two men stood alone. The lantern was stocked with vegetable oil, giving the room a smell not altogether unlike fried food. That was nice, but Albacore missed electricity. “That goes without saying. But… this is America. We have standards.”

“If I wanted to abide by all of those popular ethical rules, I would take a vow of poverty and save myself the time.” John Grant spoke with levity, but he smiled in the way that a shark smiles. A shark with a gun. “The U.S. Chamber of Commerce is not a charity, but in this case, it seems that our interests coincide with doing what’s best for everyone – even for those who don’t recognize it yet.”

“You really think that people will accept your legislation, what is effectively a non-expiring carte blanche for the financial sector, for business in general, to do what it pleases without fear of reprisal?”

“I think they do not have a choice, and are smart enough to realize that there’s nothing they can do about it. Give them some credit, Eustace. Ah!” Grant’s smile widened mischievously, like the Mariana Trench. “But do not forget that politicians such as yourself will benefit from the legislation, too. And it’s not all ethical wrongdoing; just what we think we can get away with without too much harm. And it’s all for a good cause.”

Albacore cleared his throat. “None of this will do a lick of good for the nation unless Nicholas concurs, and consents to give us exactly what we want while we game his system. Nick is a man of integrity, John – I do not believe he will go along with this when he realizes what we are doing. The man is a saint.”

John Grant laughed merrily, jingling softly. “He is a creature of habit, Eustace. I know the man well. He abides by certain laws; the stockings will be in place expectantly, and they will be filled. And in one night, our energy problems will be over. Enough of the black stuff to get the nation through the winter and more besides, with good stewardship. Think of it – warm showers again in the White House! Electric nightlights for your children, Eustace!”

Albacore knew when his emotions were being played with, because he was so good at playing with emotions himself. But he wasn’t won over yet, and there was a fundamental point which stood to overturn the entire plan. It was time to play what cards he had. “Okay, energy crisis solved. Great. What about the environmental crisis? What about the stocking crisis, you old razorblade?”

Grant’s face hardened into granite, and his smile took on a brittle quality but did not dissipate. “You go right for the big picture. A good quality in a leader.” He paused for a moment to contemplate his companion. “They do say that the environment is, well, changing. That these past ten years of tumultuous, chaotic weather, of bitter-cold winters, of California evaporating and Florida disappearing, that these things are not coincidence. And yes, I have even heard it said that our nation does not possess a large-enough stocking stockpile – or sockpile, if you will – to pull a plan of this magnitude off. Yes, I have heard it all,” he continued, drawing himself up to his full height, which admittedly wasn’t much, “from naysayers and narrow-visioned fools from all corners of politics. But surely you do not think I haven’t done my research? You think I would place my own self-interest and a soggy old grudge ahead of the nation’s future at a time when it’s so clearly called into question?”

“I know what you are,” Albacore said defiantly. “I know what you want. But I’m standing here listening to you against my better judgment because, after all, these are desperate times and I’m willing to do whatever will be in the people’s best interests. Not yours, not mine, but theirs.”

“Then how about this,” said Grant. “You pick the worst environmental offenders. The Chamber of Commerce is willing to give you anything, Albacore. Yes, even military-industrial, even oil. I remember you came into office as a reformer – as so many of us do!”

“I don’t believe you ever did,” Albacore returned harshly.

“ – so you just take your pick and we’ll write regulations the EPA itself only wishes it was bold enough to come up with. Jobs are lost, public opinion falls temporarily, but I trust you can fix that later. Meanwhile, all of the resources salvaged from that industry will be diverted to making new stockings – environmentally-friendly stockings, at that! – in preparation for C-day. Your stocking crisis and your environmental crisis will be solved all at once.” John [...]]]> It wasn’t a very good plan… actually, it was terrible. But nonetheless, the U.S. Chamber of Commerce was dead-set on it, and President Eustace Albacore was finding himself at a loss for words.

“It’s just… I really can’t give this my stamp of approval, you know,” he said, scratching the back of his balding neck uncomfortably. “Misbehavior on this level… what will the people think?”

“I appreciate your concern, but I do not think they will be troubled – on some level, this will be exactly what they would expect from business and politics,” John Grant, the head of the Chamber of Commerce, returned smoothly. He was a short man clad in green with laugh lines around his mouth, but the spark in his eye was no twinkle – it was the glint of steel. “And you must agree that the energy crisis has reached new levels of urgency.”

Albacore glanced ruefully at the lantern which gave its baleful glow to the conference room where the two men stood alone. The lantern was stocked with vegetable oil, giving the room a smell not altogether unlike fried food. That was nice, but Albacore missed electricity. “That goes without saying. But… this is America. We have standards.”

“If I wanted to abide by all of those popular ethical rules, I would take a vow of poverty and save myself the time.” John Grant spoke with levity, but he smiled in the way that a shark smiles. A shark with a gun. “The U.S. Chamber of Commerce is not a charity, but in this case, it seems that our interests coincide with doing what’s best for everyone – even for those who don’t recognize it yet.”

“You really think that people will accept your legislation, what is effectively a non-expiring carte blanche for the financial sector, for business in general, to do what it pleases without fear of reprisal?”

“I think they do not have a choice, and are smart enough to realize that there’s nothing they can do about it. Give them some credit, Eustace. Ah!” Grant’s smile widened mischievously, like the Mariana Trench. “But do not forget that politicians such as yourself will benefit from the legislation, too. And it’s not all ethical wrongdoing; just what we think we can get away with without too much harm. And it’s all for a good cause.”

Albacore cleared his throat. “None of this will do a lick of good for the nation unless Nicholas concurs, and consents to give us exactly what we want while we game his system. Nick is a man of integrity, John – I do not believe he will go along with this when he realizes what we are doing. The man is a saint.”

John Grant laughed merrily, jingling softly. “He is a creature of habit, Eustace. I know the man well. He abides by certain laws; the stockings will be in place expectantly, and they will be filled. And in one night, our energy problems will be over. Enough of the black stuff to get the nation through the winter and more besides, with good stewardship. Think of it – warm showers again in the White House! Electric nightlights for your children, Eustace!”

Albacore knew when his emotions were being played with, because he was so good at playing with emotions himself. But he wasn’t won over yet, and there was a fundamental point which stood to overturn the entire plan. It was time to play what cards he had. “Okay, energy crisis solved. Great. What about the environmental crisis? What about the stocking crisis, you old razorblade?”

Grant’s face hardened into granite, and his smile took on a brittle quality but did not dissipate. “You go right for the big picture. A good quality in a leader.” He paused for a moment to contemplate his companion. “They do say that the environment is, well, changing. That these past ten years of tumultuous, chaotic weather, of bitter-cold winters, of California evaporating and Florida disappearing, that these things are not coincidence. And yes, I have even heard it said that our nation does not possess a large-enough stocking stockpile – or sockpile, if you will – to pull a plan of this magnitude off. Yes, I have heard it all,” he continued, drawing himself up to his full height, which admittedly wasn’t much, “from naysayers and narrow-visioned fools from all corners of politics. But surely you do not think I haven’t done my research? You think I would place my own self-interest and a soggy old grudge ahead of the nation’s future at a time when it’s so clearly called into question?”

“I know what you are,” Albacore said defiantly. “I know what you want. But I’m standing here listening to you against my better judgment because, after all, these are desperate times and I’m willing to do whatever will be in the people’s best interests. Not yours, not mine, but theirs.”

“Then how about this,” said Grant. “You pick the worst environmental offenders. The Chamber of Commerce is willing to give you anything, Albacore. Yes, even military-industrial, even oil. I remember you came into office as a reformer – as so many of us do!”

“I don’t believe you ever did,” Albacore returned harshly.

“ – so you just take your pick and we’ll write regulations the EPA itself only wishes it was bold enough to come up with. Jobs are lost, public opinion falls temporarily, but I trust you can fix that later. Meanwhile, all of the resources salvaged from that industry will be diverted to making new stockings – environmentally-friendly stockings, at that! – in preparation for C-day. Your stocking crisis and your environmental crisis will be solved all at once.” John Grant drew himself up to his full height with a tingle of bells. “Sign the bill, Eustace. Give misbehavior free reign. Santa Claus will do his part, and on Christmas day, we’ll have all the coal we need to get this nation through the long winter.”

The lantern flickered gently in an unseen draft in the sudden silence. “Give me a few days to think it over.”

“I’ll be back in touch next week, Mister President. I trust you will make the right decision.”

John Grant left, his lithe, sinewy gait apparent, his belled footsteps echoing down the corridor outside. The door shut, and the lantern danced again. In the half-light, President Albacore gazed at the Christmas decorations hanging for the mantle. A single tear fell, splashing quietly on the table.

“We’re all going to need bigger stockings.”

* * *

THIS HOLIDAY SEASON…
THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE CHRISTMAS FOR AMERICA…
IS TO BE VERY, VERY NAUGHTY INDEED.

COMING AFTER MIDNIGHT, DECEMBER 24th, WHILE YOU’RE ASLEEP. …YOU ARE ENCOURAGED TO LEAVE COOKIES.

Their goal: to turn Detroit into an uninhabitable wasteland, full of starving paupers who turn to crime because no legitimate work exists within the city limits. I cannot imagine a world where this would be true. It’s a fact… they hate our Detroit-centric way of life. We must not allow the terrorists to win.

Not since the terrorists crashed a plane in Somerset County has our country felt such pain.

Not a POOP was BARFING, not even a SCROTUM.

The ETHNIC MINORITIES were hung by the TREE with care,

In hopes that RETARDS soon would be there;

The children were BEATING OFF all snug in their beds,

While visions of YOUR MOM danced in their heads.

When, what to my wondering ANUS should appear,

But a miniature COCK, and eight tiny BALLS.

“Now, BUTT! now, BUTTMUNCH! now, MORON and BUTTCHEESE!

On, POOP! on POOPER! on, DANDER and FECES!

He spoke not a word, but went straight to TAKING A DUMP IN THE MIDDLE OF MY LIVING ROOM,

And laying a finger INSIDE his nose,

And giving a BLOWJOB, up the TOILET he rose;

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

“GO SUCK A DICK, and to all a good-night.”

“It was so sweet the way the Rock of Ages filled in for the injured Santa,” said critic Danielle Steele. “And the veterinary proficiency Jesus displayed in healing Rudolf’s ailing nose was astounding. When the Light of the World worked for hours to fix Santa’s sleigh during that one montage sequence, I was ready to cry.” Added Steele, “That ticking clock motif really got to me.”

“When some zany elf rebels captured Mrs. Clause and took her to the U.S.S.R., I really thought it was all over,” said theatergoer Ray Wilkins. “The ensuing passage where Jesus tracked down and fought the Communists and their dinosaurs in their tundra lair was one of the most meaningful moments of my life, perhaps anyone’s life anywhere. It shows that while Jesus seemed hardboiled on the outside, on the inside he’s a man with a big heart… which may or may not be on fire.”

Eyewitnesses have reported that Jesus proceeded to bring back the stolen presents, reunite his estranged parents, and teach a child to believe in Santa Clause… and in himself.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” said young Krustavich, whose faith in humanity (and in Jesus) had been restored.

This salvation of a cherished time of togetherness as a family came as a relief after 1996, when some Spanish guy saved Christmas and no one could understand him or give him a job that paid above minimum wage.

This article was previously published in readme, Carnegie Mellon University’s one-stop source for things that probably aren’t true.

“Bah!”, said Scrooge. “Humbug!”

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge’s, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

“Christmas a humbug, uncle?”, said Scrooge’s nephew. “You don’t mean that, I am sure?”

“I do”, said Scrooge. “‘Merry Christmas’! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.”

“Come, then”, returned the nephew gaily. “What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You’re rich enough.”

Scrooge stopped writing and looked up at his nephew with a stare as cold as the air in the bleak counting house. “Christmas,” said the old miser, “is nothing but a reminder of the inevitable passage of time, an anniversary upon which the fates decide to heap another tragedy upon my life.”

The nephew took a seat as the old man continued, his voice barely concealing a cruel cynical laugh of contempt. “How should I celebrate Christmas, then? Shall I spend the evening alone with my books, as I did as a child? While every other student of the boarding school was fattening himself upon roasts and candied fruits, I was in solitude save for Ali Babba taking sanctuary from your grandfather, a man who held me a grudge for killing my mother in childbirth. My first Christmases were full of pain and disappointment, watching your mother open lavish gifts while I received nothing but my father’s bitter wisdom. ‘The gift of life should be enough for you, Ebenezer,’ he would say. ‘Heaven knows we paid enough for it and have yet to profit from the exchange.’ No, no Christmas of my youth should serve as template for celebration.”

A tear was at the corner of the nephew’s eye, eyes so like his mother’s. She too would cry come Christmas and would secretly offer to share whatever she received with the young Ebenezer to try and keep his spirits up. But he always refused. It was the name slot on the tags he wanted, not the gifts inside. Inside, the nephew felt a burning surge of empathy for the old man; he knew what it was like to be blamed for the death of one’s mother.

“I suppose I had one happy Christmas, at old Fezziwig’s fabric store as an apprentice. He threw the most lavish of parties, especially considering he spent so little on it. I danced then, you know, and was known as being quite agile on my feet. And I met her, Belle, a beautiful young woman in appearance and soul. We danced, we laughed, we loved.”

A smile crept up on the old man, slowly working facial muscles long atrophied to the years. A small hope crept up inside the nephew, before being crushed. “But, the higher the rise, the greater the fall. I poured my soul into my work for her, to earn her, taking the small inheritance I received and lending it out, investing, to build a solid foundation for our future. Christmas after Christmas she expected me to seal our contract, and Christmas after Christmas I was unready. Those were years of building disappointment and a growing gap between us. Should I celebrate those Christmases? A toast to what I had once and lost due to time? Shall I roast a goose to honor the hours of silence that emerged? Or decorate a tree with baubles of her increasingly distant stare? No, not those Christmases, for there I found misery in company where I had only known it in solitude, and was all the worse for it, for she gave me a heart only to let it break and decay.”

“Or what of the Christmas where she left me? Shattered our contract, right there in park. She didn’t even look at me until the words ‘I release you, Ebenezer,’ left her lips. She left me there, completely alone save for the coins in my pocket! The second she stopped being the complete and total center of my existence, the moment I had to share the space on altar to her with the financial needs of our lives, she refused to understand me, to love me, and it destroyed me. I walked out of that park past carolers and happy children playing in the snow, unable to relate to any of them. Some babe born in a pig sty millennia ago and they’re out singing in the snow! Bah! Humbug!”

“I lost myself in my work. Marley, my only real companion, you couldn’t call him a friend. But the cruel fates took him from me on your precious Christmas as well, seven years ago this day! Don’t you see, nephew? Christmas for others may be a time of reconciliation, of loved ones coming together. For me, it is a day of loved ones being cruelly separated. For me, this is a day of humiliation at the hands of my father, rejection at the hands of Belle, solitude at the hands of Marley. It is a day of tears being repressed and somber memories and thoughts discarded. How else could a man like I survive? To open myself up to the world, to Christmas, is to only invite pain. The only way to endure is to refuse to feel.”

“Perhaps when you are an older, wiser man, [...]]]> “A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!”, cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

“Bah!”, said Scrooge. “Humbug!”

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge’s, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

“Christmas a humbug, uncle?”, said Scrooge’s nephew. “You don’t mean that, I am sure?”

“I do”, said Scrooge. “‘Merry Christmas’! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.”

“Come, then”, returned the nephew gaily. “What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You’re rich enough.”

Scrooge stopped writing and looked up at his nephew with a stare as cold as the air in the bleak counting house. “Christmas,” said the old miser, “is nothing but a reminder of the inevitable passage of time, an anniversary upon which the fates decide to heap another tragedy upon my life.”

The nephew took a seat as the old man continued, his voice barely concealing a cruel cynical laugh of contempt. “How should I celebrate Christmas, then? Shall I spend the evening alone with my books, as I did as a child? While every other student of the boarding school was fattening himself upon roasts and candied fruits, I was in solitude save for Ali Babba taking sanctuary from your grandfather, a man who held me a grudge for killing my mother in childbirth. My first Christmases were full of pain and disappointment, watching your mother open lavish gifts while I received nothing but my father’s bitter wisdom. ‘The gift of life should be enough for you, Ebenezer,’ he would say. ‘Heaven knows we paid enough for it and have yet to profit from the exchange.’ No, no Christmas of my youth should serve as template for celebration.”

A tear was at the corner of the nephew’s eye, eyes so like his mother’s. She too would cry come Christmas and would secretly offer to share whatever she received with the young Ebenezer to try and keep his spirits up. But he always refused. It was the name slot on the tags he wanted, not the gifts inside. Inside, the nephew felt a burning surge of empathy for the old man; he knew what it was like to be blamed for the death of one’s mother.

“I suppose I had one happy Christmas, at old Fezziwig’s fabric store as an apprentice. He threw the most lavish of parties, especially considering he spent so little on it. I danced then, you know, and was known as being quite agile on my feet. And I met her, Belle, a beautiful young woman in appearance and soul. We danced, we laughed, we loved.”

A smile crept up on the old man, slowly working facial muscles long atrophied to the years. A small hope crept up inside the nephew, before being crushed. “But, the higher the rise, the greater the fall. I poured my soul into my work for her, to earn her, taking the small inheritance I received and lending it out, investing, to build a solid foundation for our future. Christmas after Christmas she expected me to seal our contract, and Christmas after Christmas I was unready. Those were years of building disappointment and a growing gap between us. Should I celebrate those Christmases? A toast to what I had once and lost due to time? Shall I roast a goose to honor the hours of silence that emerged? Or decorate a tree with baubles of her increasingly distant stare? No, not those Christmases, for there I found misery in company where I had only known it in solitude, and was all the worse for it, for she gave me a heart only to let it break and decay.”

“Or what of the Christmas where she left me? Shattered our contract, right there in park. She didn’t even look at me until the words ‘I release you, Ebenezer,’ left her lips. She left me there, completely alone save for the coins in my pocket! The second she stopped being the complete and total center of my existence, the moment I had to share the space on altar to her with the financial needs of our lives, she refused to understand me, to love me, and it destroyed me. I walked out of that park past carolers and happy children playing in the snow, unable to relate to any of them. Some babe born in a pig sty millennia ago and they’re out singing in the snow! Bah! Humbug!”

“I lost myself in my work. Marley, my only real companion, you couldn’t call him a friend. But the cruel fates took him from me on your precious Christmas as well, seven years ago this day! Don’t you see, nephew? Christmas for others may be a time of reconciliation, of loved ones coming together. For me, it is a day of loved ones being cruelly separated. For me, this is a day of humiliation at the hands of my father, rejection at the hands of Belle, solitude at the hands of Marley. It is a day of tears being repressed and somber memories and thoughts discarded. How else could a man like I survive? To open myself up to the world, to Christmas, is to only invite pain. The only way to endure is to refuse to feel.”

“Perhaps when you are an older, wiser man, when funerals outnumber birthdays, you’ll understand. Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”

“Keep it!” repeated Scrooge’s nephew. “But you don’t keep it.”

“Let me leave it alone, then,” said Scrooge. “Given my previous record with the holiday, the most I can hope for is that Christmas will return the favor of forced indifference! Good day, sir.”

There was a beat where nobody dared move. Then, the old man shouted, “I said, good day!”

The nephew turned to leave as Ebenezer returned to his books. The former exchanged forced pleasantries with Mr. Cratchit as he put his hat and coat back on. As he turned to leave, he stared back at his uncle one last time. “Merry Christmas, uncle.”

As the door squeaked closed, Mr. Cratchit could have sworn he faintly hear the old man whisper, “Merry Christmas,” in return, but was not sure of it and knew better than to ask.

That was the last time his nephew tried to invite the old man to Christmas dinner. The fates decided to honor Scrooge’s request and give him the Christmas gift of an uninterrupted sleep. Slowly, the years of pain corroded the man from the inside out and he died, years later than he should have. His nephew and Cratchit were the only ones at the wake. The nephew was particularly cold and distant, even for a burial: it was the first invitation to a funeral he had ever received.