The War on Christmas / A Letter from the Front

My Dearest Victoria,

 

It is dark and cold as I write these words.

 

The war is hellish. Every hour, I see brightly colored lights, torn down, mangled and strewn recklessly across the streets and alleys. Broken wreaths thrown to the heavens and allowed to smash into bits on the ground. Nativity scene figures butchered and twisted, the broken Mary desecrated with the scarlet lipstick and garish rouge of a cheap, Richmond strumpet. I swear to you, Victoria, the plastic eyes were crying real tears, bitter with loss and despair.

 

My unit found the heathens responsible, in a saloon festooned with greenery and stinking of sage, nary a sweet poinsettia in sight. We attacked them as they were sipping their Sauvignon blanc, awaiting their Kale Puttanesca.

 

We left none of the monsters with breath in them. All now await their fate, I am sure, in the vestibule of Hell itself.

 

I've seen, beloved Victoria, horrors unimaginable. Candy canes broken off in the rectums of department store Santas, the sodomites responsible laughing and singing secular songs about snow and eggnog while they tortured the poor St. Nicholas and pummeled his elven helpers to the ground. Stockings ripped from the mantelpieces of the God fearing. Trees burning in the streets, their ornaments broken and jagged, flecked with the blood of the crying children who tried to grab the trees as they were dragged from the homes they once thought warm and safe.

 

The things I have seen, Victoria, weigh on my spirit like a thousand anvils.

 

Even the cities and towns we thought sympathetic to our cause harbor the wicked. Just this morning, in Nashville, a damnable liberal offered to me his hateful “Happy Holidays”, never relinquishing the smug grin on his gay-marrying, baby-killing lips. I had no choice but to defend our culture's honor, raining blows upon him and leaving his beaten body to be eaten by the dogs with whom he was unfit to run.

 

Our lives have become cruel. We neither wanted nor asked for this war on our beloved holiday. But neither will we run when it is attacked. We will stand and fight the devil himself, if necessary.

 

We will relinquish our Christmas only when they pry the tinsel from our cold, dead hands.

 

Give my love to our children.

 

I remain yours and true.

Beauregard

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

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