The War on Christmas: An Eyewitness Account from Behind Enemy Lines

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click to enlarge A Happy Holiday sign, a battle grenade in the war on Christmas - Vanesser III/FlickrCC
Vanesser III/FlickrCC
A Happy Holiday sign, a battle grenade in the war on Christmas

For the past week I have dared to go deep behind enemy lines. To the belly of the beast: Strongsville, Ohio. To ground zero in the War on Christmas: Walmart.

Commend my bravery all you will, but I do this not for personal glory. I do it for Baby Jesus.

As any Sunday schooler knows, Christmas is the time we celebrate His birth by running up credit card debt. It’s our way of giving to those He loves the most: The Job Creators.

But some think they know better than our Lord & Savior, fearing that second-hand religions might feel left out. Instead of saying “Merry Christmas,” they use slurs like “Happy Holidays” and “Seasons Greetings.” Their goal: To cancel Baby Jesus.

Not on my watch.

“Courageous” is perhaps the best word to describe my reconnaissance at this nerve center of the Liberal Elite. Full camo conceals my identity from the unknowing throngs. My only nod to safety is a carbon tactical helmet, capable of repelling fire should my cover be blown. My discoveries will shock you.

Attacks on Jesus are everywhere. “Yuletide greetings.” “Deck the halls.” “Feliz Navidad.” The most offensive of all: “Joy to the World.” As if Baby Jesus cares about other countries.

Walmart claims to be from Bentonville, Arkansas. Its merchandise tells a different story. Much of it carries the Mark of the Beast: “Made in China.” Instead of spending money at stores owned by true Christians – read: private equity firms — shoppers give comfort to our atheist enemy. It is nothing short of treason.

I have chosen to fly solo on this mission. My original plan was to assemble a crack team of military men — or at least those who’ve spent a great deal of time playing Call of Duty. Yet I’m ashamed to say my compatriots don’t share my ardor for the Lord. My buddy Mike begged off, noting that it was bowl season. My pal Jimmy was even less enthusiastic. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he replied, before hanging up.

I fear they’ve gotten to him. Subsequent texts have gone unanswered.

Alas, I am also unarmed. A series of misunderstandings involving ex-girlfriends and attempted new ones have left a few too many restraining orders on my permanent record. Under the tyranny of RINO Gov. Mike DeWine, this is apparently enough to keep a Christian soldier from getting a concealed carry permit in Ohio.

Despite these limitations, my mission has been a stunning success. In the traitors’ haste to glom Disney princesses and XXL bags of Nacho Doritos, no one notices the white knight in their midst. Especially the woman I assume to be their leader.

She stands outside the front door, decked in full military regalia and ringing a bell, calling heretics to enemy HQ. Shoppers hand her random denominations of currency as some sort of entrance fee. A kettle serves as her cash register, stenciled with the words “Salvation Army.”

A quick search of Wikipedia reveals it to be a “Protestant charitable organization.” But that’s just a cover. Given the orgy of anti-American activity before me, it’s clearly a terrorist front, most likely for Hezbollah or the National Organization of Women.

She’s middle-aged, matronly of a sort, taking to evil with jubilance as she belts out carols and greets henchmen with good cheer. Thankfully: She is unarmed.

I have studied her for days, memorizing my talking points. My plan is to confront her in one fell swoop, leaving her speechless with my mastery of the facts. She will realize she’s been owned. She will trudge away in shame. Her partisans will turn their allegiance to Amazon, a true, blue American firm that embraces Christ’s sacred teachings on free enterprise. The Judas Walmart will be no more.

As the crowds dwindle near closing time, I make my move.

“Merry Christmas,” I announce to her. It’s a blistering salvo. For a moment, I fear she will crumble before I can unleash my best lines.

“Merry Christmas!” she responds, her gaiety at full ramming speed. I am taken aback. She doesn’t seem to notice that I am owning her.

“Merry Christmas,” I try again.

“And Merry Christmas unto you!” she says, her smile burning like 1,000 tanning beds.

She is not following the script. I assumed she would wither at mere mention of Christ. But that’s the problem with libs. They are so lost to the notion of fact-based discourse they know not when they’re being destroyed.

“I mean, like, Merry Christmas? As in Baby Jesus’ birthday?” I am losing my footing. The words come haltingly.

“Yes! What a wonderful time of year!” she gushes, though a hint of concern begins to cross her face. “Can I help you with something? Do you have someplace warm to go tonight?”

This is not going well. I should have destroyed her by now, already heading back home down Route 82, perhaps stopping for a celebratory Baconator along the way. If I possessed emotion – which real men don’t – I might describe myself in freefall. For this is something quite different than triumph. Am I… being owned?

She stares at me with pity. I try to summon my best lines about “One Nation Under God.” They seemed like a kill shot just moments before. But they come out muttered, feeling impotent, possibly unhinged.

She is smiling again, the way an ewe looks upon the defenseless lambs. I feel the sudden urge to flee, to cut my losses, to live to fight another day.

“Merry Christmas,” I mumble one last time. Shoulders downcast, I trudge into the night.

“And peace be upon you,” she calls to my back.

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