Jesus, Mary, watch where you hold that thing. I know that real candles provide authenticity to our roving Nativity scene, but the wax you spilled on my arm is hotter than the fires of eternal damnation. Wow-za, that hurt. I mean Holy Mother of—oh, that’s you. Mary, in just a few hours we can go home with Baby Jesus, but until then we must stand tall in the quad of this strip mall and shout The News to those who arrive en masse the day before the birth of our Lord.
Citizens, do you not remember the true meaning of Christmas?!
Do you, Mary? Because I don’t anymore. My hands are numb and the cold has restricted blood flow to my brain. I should have bought mittens back when the bills in my wallet weren’t so ornery. Yeah, we all know about how honest you are, Abe, but how about operating some discretion while I try converting these droves of incoming heathens? I’m sorry for my tone, Mr. President. You have been a God-fearing Christian back when these buildings and roads were just a sparkle in the eye of our Creator, but I am a little on edge: this is our 10th strip mall in two weeks. You’re right, I deserve to treat myself.
Excuse me, Sir? Sir! Can you please take President Lincoln to the nearest Hot Chocolate stand? He doesn’t know his way around. He knows the order: one for me and one for my wife. Whipped cream on top. Merry Christmas, to you, too!
Well, Mary, this is it. We have done our very best. For the 5th year in a row, we have said “Merry Christmas” to all kinds of people, from Atheists to Agnostics and even to people that don’t speak English, including babies. We have displayed the scene of His birth to passersby, most of whom ignore us, some of whom acknowledge us, and that one guy who said he dated you in High School before I reminded him that “We’re kind of doing a thing here, Sir!” It’s just you and I now, Mary. The Three Kings ditched us for a fire sale at Ikea, and the mules we rented left us for the greener pastures of our neighbors’ backyard. And, lets be honest: Baby Jesus is just a sack of oatmeal. Microwave ready, but still.
Can the talk about a real baby wait until we get home? I’m not scared of being a father, I just don’t want to discuss the matter while this sea of apostates brushes by us with their shopping bags, bogged down and overflowing with the fruits of their labor, fueling the capitalist engine that keeps this country afloat…And a Merry Christmas to you, too, Ma’am! What a beautiful family you have!
What’s this? Here’s Sir again, bearing gifts! Would you look at this, Mary? You admonished me for my stupidity, but the man has brought us the hot chocolate that we desired. Mr. President, wherever you are, you have followed through on your promise! Granted, though I gave ten of your brethren to strangers and only one man followed through, but now is not the time for negativity.
What’s your name, Sir? Billy? Well, Merry Christmas to you, Billy. You’re not a Christian? “Nothing in particular?” Well, Merry Christmas to you, anyways. Christmas is one of the few days of the year that I can confidently call a Happy Holi–ah, son of a—tell you what, Billy, despite your exclusion from the kingdom of Heaven, and in recognition of your service to our Nativity, what would you think of playing the parts of all Three Kings? Don’t be shy. The frankincense and myrrh were confiscated by mall security guards, but you can carry the gold, which is actually chocolate wrapped in gold-colored tin foil. When we get out of here in a couple hours, it’s all yours.