The Long March to Bethlehem

As we approach the gift-giving season, skating across Christmassy streets and mooching through Santa's Mega Malls, humankind quickly metamorphasize ourselves into polyhedral constructions of sharp-edged shopping bags, quilted overcoats and flowing scarves. A cadaverous Salvation Army sergeant shakes his brass bell into frowning, frosted faces. Workmen dressed as elves fuse an entire city block as they attempt to provide power to a zillion faery lights strung around a forty-foot fir tree from Norway. Ye olde Yankee candle shoppe is hard-selling the flickering flame of nostalgia for the ghost of New England Christmas Past.
But, alas, we are informed that wishing our fellow citizens "Merry Christmas" is actually unacceptable in this multicultural age, and that we should now greet one another with "Happy Holidays" instead ... and all the seasonal signs in all the stores agree, despite that cacophany of unmistakable Christmas Carols still blaring forth from their winter wonderland interiors, deafening shoppers and passers-by alike. And typically it is those responsible for denouncing Christmas in the first place, those politically correct Cambridge fuzzballs with their graying ponytails and wooly purple socks who dance down the aisle with their macrobiotically-raised children whenever "Feliz Navidad" is played, surely one of the most Jesus-centric of all Christmas songs.
Nevermind. Keep the Yuletide fires burning, eh. After all, as I wrote in this space last year:

I Am the Thomas Kinkade in your Mind

Hello. I am the Thomas Kinkade in your mind. I hope you are feeling cozy in your quaint thatched cottage with the mossy stone wall that runs alongside it set amid rolling patchwork hills. Behold the dappled trees and wild flowers in lush, colorful and resplendent bloom!
And yet it is also softly snowing! See how the dainty, glistening flakes tumble down to the pure white carpet in which your pretty cats gambol and prance.
It is magenta twilight. The sun illuminates fluffy clouds drifing peacefully across an azure sky. And the moon shepherds its flock of twinkling stars. A peach-faced child in a silken nightdress scans the night sky and waits for Santa Claus.
A beautiful golden fire shines forth from the latticed cottage window. Someone is roasting marshmellows. Who could it be? Well if it isn't lucky old you and your handsome family!
Meanwhile, torrents of human blood begins to pool in the locked room upstairs: drip, drip, drip through the creaking attic floorboards, staining the Persian rug in the room below. There has been a horrible murder.
Mad Jack the Hatchet Man lurks in the misty red woodshed with his gleaming cleaver. Your name mumbles across his quivering lips. His grip tightens on the evil weapon as he silently lifts the latch and begins to ...
... No. No wait! What's happening? This is all worng. The Thomas Kinkade in your mind is having one of its funny turns. Too much turkey dinner. I'm terribly sorry. This happens from time to time .... Move along please. Nothing to see here. Move along please. Nothing to see here ... yes, madam, it's just a Thomas Kinkade gone bad. I'm sure you'll read all about it in the tomorrow's newspaper. Move along please. Nothing to see here. Just a Thomas Kinkade gone bad. Move along please ... Happy Holidays.

Comments

[Fcb]

Stop your prevaricating, man: which side of the egg should be cracked first?

[stephenesque]

Blefuscuan side, naturally.

[Andraste]

"...those politically correct Cambridge fuzzballs with their graying ponytails and wooly purple socks who dance down the aisle with their macrobiotically-raised children whenever "Feliz Navidad" is played, surely one of the most Jesus-centric of all Christmas songs."

Whooohooo. You hit the nail on the head, there, Stephen. Don't forget the Volvo wagons and sandals.

[Bleak Mouse]

Look, I can't help it if my ponytail is graying.

Speaking of macrobiotic Volvos, on a drive this morning I noticed another vehicle with "Kerry/Edwards" and "Teresa Heinz Kerry for First Lady" -- in the rear window.

Isn't that election, like, over? I think I read something like that in the paper, but it was a long time ago.

[Mortimer Shy]

Bleak Mouse, welcome to the Afterlife. (These are not mere confusing artifacts, but important clues to to where you really are.)

[Bleak Mouse]

Thank you, M.S. It all makes perfect sense now.

Though I must admit I thought it would all be, somehow...different.

[Mortimer Shy]

Bleak. I know, we all thought when we got here, in the Hereafter, we would be able to slack off a bit. Turns out we have to be ever more attentive. And so much work to be done! I must say it's fun and exhilarating using Stephen's blog to talk among ourselves, and possibly this dialogue escapes the notice of the AA (Afterlife Authorities).

[stephenesque]

Oh no. You're being watched, pal. You'd better believe it