My girlfriend's parents had just gone to bed. My girlfriend was finishing wrapping the last of her presents. The stockings were hanging over the fireplace with care. The house was quiet, and I was sitting on the couch. Sitting there, in that silent night, I realized what I must do.
I could, in one swift decisive action, put an end to America's longest and most costly war. In a swift single decapitation strike, I could win the War on Christmas.
I could kill Santa Claus.
It wouldn't be easy. I was staying in the one Texas household without a single firearm. All the house had in the way of weapons was a set of CutCo knives that had earlier in the evening struggled to cut through thyme leaves. General Kringle would be more difficult, and I'd want to be able to strike a killing blow. I couldn't count on a flesh wound and then tentanus to finish him off. I'm not cruel. I just want the War to finally end. It's gone on for so long, and we've lost so much with nothing to show for it.
And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I wasn't up to the task. I was more or less unarmed. I am sickly. Santa, on the other hand, has been doing this for centuries, avoiding attack and detection for all this time. If I tried to take him out, I would only embarrass myself and possibly get myself hurt. Also, people I love really like Christmas, and they would probably take it out on me if the War ended.
Finally, admitting defeat, I went up to my girlfriend's childhood bedroom, changed into my pajamas, and went to bed. In the morning, the stockings were filled. With care. It's like he was mocking me. The War would continue. We must simply endure.