Anywhere, USA – The Prince of Peace was in hiding today as a Christian nation began the worrying, yearly commemorative search for bargain myrrh and other humble whatnots. On the heels of the traditional Thanksgiving banquet a Pavlovian bell was heard faintly to chime and the sea of Modern Monetized Magi poured into big box outlets like a debris-strewn storm surge, swarming over police barricades, mashing humanoid dents into metal security doors and beating each other with Roman Centurion gusto. In a bid to outstrip the Filipino Faithful, who during the holy month of December are known to ritually crucify themselves to honor Christ’s sacrifice, well-fed Americans in their millions ran angrily amok with their chins and fat little arms, swinging dimpled fists and trampling one another in pious if historically ill-informed scenes intended to honor Christ’s Passion.
“J-e!–e!-e!—e!-e-e!–e!-s-u-u!-u!-u!-u!-uh!uu!-u-uu!- s-s-ss!-s-s dad for our s-s-s-ss—s-s-sins-s-s-s-!” sang Mary Faversham in a jittery voice of praise while jogging at full speed in the direction of the flat screen TV bonanza in aisle 7. Crossing herself very approximately with her free hand while straight-arming and clawing with the other, she hustled forward with a pilgrim’s ardor. The other faithful could be seen to surround the offered bargain merchandise, their Sacrament, climbing atop each other in His name, Glory be to God. The Lord made a furtive 11th hour appearance and from behind a phalanx of jittery police watched the proceedings with an expression of profound discouragement, agonizing stigmata weeping with abandon. When asked for comment He stroked His beard and spoke uneasily, His unexpectedly swarthy Middle-Eastern countenance furrowing.
“I died for this crowd,” He marveled under His breath. “AND I wasn’t told I’d be re-killed every December. It’s a tough game.”