For real-time information about the #WarOnChristmas, refer to the Wonkette war Twitter.
Ex-PFC Wintergreen was cold. So cold. It seemed so easy to just drift off, but there was fucking Minderbinder screaming in his face, hoisting him over his shoulder, getting him the fuck out of there, man. He could only stare at Milo’s lips, from which no sound issued. The smell of nutmeg had deafened him. He looked down. Where his legs should have been was instead a giant web of cotton candy. He fainted.
The War on Christmas was not spurred by any one event — the long-simmering feud saw the decline of relations every holiday season, with Christmas making significant manger-scene incursions in some years, and lawsuits and injunctions beating it back in others. This year, however, Christmas was caught off-guard by a preemptive strike, an all-out siege declared before any media outlets could interpret innocuous defense of the First Amendment as a move of military aggression.
It started with Wonkette’s godless secular precision strikes on Christmas targets — the first hours of the war saw the obliteration of all major elf workshops and tinsel mines. Heavy casualties on both sides caused immediate efforts to escalate, and soon air strikes cut off all major North Pole supply lines. Initial reports were triumphal.
Surprising allies appeared, as if out of nowhere:
But that of course made it sound like a video game, when in reality it was all too real. Brigades of spinster aunts armed with fruitcakes, surrounded and sent to FEMA camps. The Mall of America a bloody wasteland of tinsel and curled ribbon. Dead elves fuckin’ EVERYWHERE.
Hermie, the gay elf who only wanted to be a dentist, hated by the Clausites simply because he was “different,” broke from the Clausite ranks and was tragically cut down as he tried to reach secularist lines, becoming the first confirmed martyr among the anti-Christmas forces. Wonkers vowed vengeance. And vengeance they had. Things started to break their way with wave after wave of skyborne punishment. Drones and stuff, you know, like that. Hermie’s sacrifice was not in vain, as his medical bag yielded vital intelligence:
The Wonkette Ministry of Propaganda dominated the social media environment:
Bravo Camp was victorious over all Pipers.
The Festivus delegation couldn’t decide whether to join ranks or stay neutral. Neutrality was for pussies; it also got you FEMA camped. You were with Wonkette or against them.
The Pole was running dangerously low on cookies and egg nog. Penguins, in violation of their status as noncombatant observers from the South Pole Neutral Zone, had begun to attack. There were rumors, fed by the cruel anti-Christmas generalix on Twitter, that they would be nuked. Ignoring the North Pole Minister of Propaganda, “Bobsled Bob,” and his reassuring claims that all was well, residents became desperate, and resorted to throwing last year’s toys over the compound walls in an attempt to disappoint the children of the siege with uncool gifts. Though there were myriad elf defections, the situation appeared to be approaching stalemate. It wasn’t always clear where loyalites lay:
Morale of the attackers was waning dangerously, until a company of troops discovered one of the toys launched from the Pole was a Tickle-Me Elmo, which are way grosser now than when they were the coolest toy anyone could have ever wanted. Spurred by fury and mildly creeped out, the attackers stormed the walls, eating their way through the Gumdrop Gate and pushing through the stocking-stuffer barricades of deodorant and Tic-Tacs.
News of Enemy movements was hard to pin down. At one point, Dessert Fox Bill O’Reilly was thought to be unreachable, safe within his Fortress of Falafel in the depths of Bullshit Mountain. Then news came that he had escaped, but did not get away without a stain on his reputation:
A strike team using two helicopters dropped into the Eagle’s Nest and found Santa Claus (code-name “Fat Man”) cowering behind one of his wives, whom he was using as a human shield, in a spider hole. He was captured and enhanced-interrogationed by the Council for Secular Humanism.
They were going to kill him super-dead, but then Jimmy Carter showed up and convinced them to just cart him around the globe letting people throw shoes at him instead. Then everybody had a Victory Lapdance, for freedom, to the music of the children’s wails. VICTORY! Except for Ex-PFC Wintergreen, who has candy canes for legs now and fucking never shuts up about it. As of press time, Major Major could not be reached for comment.
An uneasy quiet has descended on the malls and shopping websites. While the foe has been vanquished, eternal vigilance remains our watchword.