But the Picture Has a Mustache

On Christmas, I myself experienced a Christmas miracle. It was Christmas 1996, and snow covered the ground like a 4-foot thick blanket of snow. I woke at the crack of dawn and rushed downstairs to see what was the matter. And the matter was that God had not blessed us, every one. In fact, there were no presents under the tree. The lack of the presence of presents was disturbing. Even more disturbing was the spirit that was present. It was the Ghost of Christmas Present. So instead of actual packages tied up with strings, all that was there were ghosts of presents tied up with strings. When I tried to open one of them, I felt of jolt of electricity shoot up my arm. It was at that point that I realized that I was not unwrapping a ghostly present, but instead sticking a fork into an outlet. I was worth more dead than alive, so I decided to jump into the river. I tried, but half-way down into the water under the Frank Redmon Memorial Bridge, I was caught by a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer and driven by a jolly old elf. Well, it WAS driven by a jolly old elf, but I landed on him and killed him, apparently, because he disappeared. So I put on his suit and I turned into Santa Claus with a big ol' bushy beard and delivered presents all around the world in negative 5 hours (Santa can go back in time, it's true), and returned home in time to have Christmas morning again. And this time, the presents weren't ghostly. I got everything I always wanted! An Oscar Meyer Wienie Whistle, Zuzu's petals, a baby brother and a dad, a warrant for my arrest torn up into little pieces and five pairs of pants made out of strawberry rhubarb pie. It was a real Christmas miracle.

But even more miraculous is the miracle that occurs every year at Christmas: for about two weeks, everybody gets to pretend that being considerate and unselfish are actually good things. I mean, being able to pretend that is a REAL CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!