War On Christmas: Letters Home



11 October 2005

Dearest Becky Sue,

My soul is darkened by the space between us since we are now us both together apart from one another. When will my face and the eyes in that face look again on your face and your eyes as well as the rest of your body, which is totally hot? I do not know.

However much my heart longs for you until nearly breaking, this separation is necessary. I so believe in what I am doing here that I will not rest until the world is Christmas-free. I am, simply put, a soldier. A soldier in the War on Christmas.

We had our first indoctrinorientation meeting for volunteers like me just last night in the basement of an IHOP near an old DNC safehouse somewhere in San Bernardino. The place was absolutely full. I'm so excited that the secret majority of we, us Americans who want to rise up and oppress Christians, are finally coming together to do something about it.

All the major groups involved gave presentations. The gays, the ACLU, the DNC, Jews, atheists, Sikhs, everybody. The highlights, of course, were the speeches by Osama bin Laden and Michael Moore thanking us for our service and then performing sex acts on one another.

We were supposed to end with a blood sacrifice, but there were no volunteers. Instead all the women promised to get abortions should they become pregnant. That soundeed OK to us.

I've never been so energized.

I miss you.

I should be home by 10 tonight.

Love,

Korvath G. M. Horrington III

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3 November 2005

Dearest Becky Sue,

Hey girl. What up?

I've been assigned to my unit, at last! There's me, a black guy named Sonny, an Italian guy from New York we call "Brooklyn", a big tall white dude from Mississippi we call "Hayseed", an illegal immigrant we call "Frijole" and (this was a surprise) a Bumble.

We were all astounded because we assumed Bumbles all loved Christmas, but it turns out that once they were tamed by dental work, Santa sent them all down to do forced labor down in his fruit-packing interest in Costa Rica. Apparently Santa likes to be diversified. This one escaped and is out for revenge.

The guys have given me a nickname, too. They call me "Narrator". I'm not sure why but I suspect it has something to do with the way I always speak in the third-person omniscient.

Anwyway we should get our marching orders soon, Becky Sue.

Wait for me, please. It will be hard when I'm away, but know that what I'm doing I'm doing to pester and mildly annoy Christians everywhere. Our cause is righteous and just.

Yours always,

Korvy

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28 November 2005


Dear Mom,

I haven't heard from Becky Sue in a while. Is everything OK? I was hoping you could check on her for me. Thanks.

We've been slogging it in the trenches for the last few weeks. We're the dogface mutts of the War on Christmas, mom. All we do is wander the streets and enter retail establishments waiting for someone to say "Merry Christmas" to us so we can respond with "Happy Holidays". It's been extra-hard for us since Frijole doesn't speak English, Bumble doesn't speak much at all and Sonny and Hayseed won't say anything in each other's presence. That leaves all the scut work for me and Brooklyn, but we get by OK.

I'm getting used to the work. I can piss on a door wreath with almost no public embarrassment anymore and my tolerance for mistletoe poisoning has greatly increased. I can almost see out of my left eye again.

Love to Dad. Let me know if you hear from Becky Sue.

Your son,

Korvath

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8 December 2005

Dear Becky Sue,

I hope this letter finds you well. I wish you luck in your new relationship. Donnie the Weird Janitor seems like a very nice man. I wish I could be there with you, but war waits for no man. It has that in common with slutty girlfriends, I guess.

Just so you know, my unit has been upgraded to commando status. We're working deep behind enemy lines at a mall. We've all got costumes, except for Bumble. There are limits to how high sizes will go. Me, I got a penguin suit. Best I could do on short notice.

We needed codenames, so Frijole named us all "Pen-day-ho". I don't know what it means, but he calls us all that all the time, so it will be easy to remember.

The next letter I write I will probably be dead. Please do not weep for me.

Formerly yours,

Korvath G. M. Horrington III

PS- Whore.

---

15 December 2005

Dear Mom,

I'm coming home.

My unit has been deactivated. Once we got inside the mall, Bumble saw the mall Santa and went berserk. He ate four people before mall security put him down with a hail of orthopedic shoes from the second-floor medical supply outlet.

Poor Bumble. I watched his eyes as he died. There was only rage there. I like to think he's in a better place now. That mall was super tacky.

I wish I could say Sonny and Hayseed developed a grudging respect for one another, but that went out the window after Hayseed blindsided Sonny with a rock shovel from the hardware store. Never saw it coming, poor bastard.

Parting with Brooklyn was the hardest part. We did some good work together. You really bond with a guy when you eat a whole string of escalator garland together.

Know what's funny? Turns out he's from Queens. This makes me sad because "Queeny" is a much funnier nickname.

I don't want it to be over, but the squad is broken. I don't even know when Frijole left. Those illegals are sneaky that way.

I do feel like we did some good work, though. If there was at least one person who feels like their Christmas was ruined because of me, that's enough. Bumble's sacrifice will almost have been worth it.

Though I leave the service of my shadow-country, I shall never stop fighting until Christmas is dead, the Bible is banned and all non-gay fetuses are aborted.

The good news is that now I can kick Becky Sue's ass and blame it on PTSD.

Your son,

Korvath Ganymede Macleish "Narrator" Horrington III
- posted by Pops @ 10:32 AM