Letters from the War on Christmas
Dearest Martha, hope grows dim...
December 1st
Dearest Martha,
I write to you from our encampment outside the Hobby Lobby. The General remains confident that we shall prevail in our assault, though I confess my own spirits flag against the enemy’s relentless advance. We have lost many good men this week. Not to death, just Black Friday sales. But they are gone forever, arms full of purchases, eyes glazed with offensive Christmas spirit.
Some days I doubt I shall return home in time for a “happy holidays.” The nights grow cold, and I find myself wondering: Do you think of me?
Your devoted,
William
December 8th
Dearest Martha,
The assault has ended in catastrophe. We could not breach Hobby Lobby’s defensive garlands. Entire units fell to bombardment by tinsel.
We have fallen back to a defensive position at a nearby Chinese restaurant, perhaps our last refuge against Christmas spirit.
Our supply lines grow stretched. The only coffee is peppermint now.
Henderson and O’Brien simply wandered away one afternoon, mumbling about college football games. I fear we shall never see them again.
I remain,
William
December 14th
Dearest Martha,
The red Starbucks cups have broken through our lines. They are everywhere—festive, jolly, mocking us with their Christmas cheer. Even from our bunker deep within Bamboo Kitchen #3, the Mariah Carey is inescapable.
I confess something troubles me beyond the war itself. I saw on Instagram that you have been baking cookies. Perhaps they are ordinary cookies, the kind one might bake at any time of year. Surely they are not... but no, I must not think such thoughts. You would not be untrue to our cause.
The cookies are likely oatmeal, or perhaps peanut butter. Nothing seasonal. Nothing festive.
Yours,
William
December 20th
Dearest Martha,
The General is wavering. Someone showed him surveillance footage from the ending of White Christmas yesterday and he wept openly.
I know the truth about your cookies now. I saw the shapes in your photograph. Candy canes. Trees. What appeared to be a reindeer—DON’T say it was a dog, Martha.
William
December 24th
Dearest Martha,
It is over. Christmas is here, complete and total. I can hear carolers in the distance. Every storefront, every lamp post, every surface is decorated. We have lost.
I begin to wonder if this war was ever real at all. I think back to its origins and can only recall cable news segments and think pieces. Perhaps there was never anything to win. Perhaps no one ever cared what greeting we used, what cup we drank from, what we called the season. Perhaps the real war was with the forces of manufactured outrage—and perhaps we lost that one a long time ago.
I am coming home, Martha. Merry Christmas, I suppose.
I still think Love Actually sucks, though.
William
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