I originally posted this story on the Contemporary Press blog, Needles on the Beach. Sadly, Needles has not been updated much in the past year. But the war on Christmas is ongoing, and so I present to you: The Last Christmas.

The Last Christmas

It was obvious to everyone assembled in the secret conference room on K Street that Christmas would have to be hijacked. This was back in the dark days when the Christian resurgence was driving more and more Americans into a frenzied state of peace and love. Seemed like everywhere you turned that holiday season, people were helping old ladies across the street, dishing out food at homeless shelters, loving their neighbors just as they loved themselves. Progress was finally being made against the heathen countries in the Middle East. Homosexuals and drug abusers were getting their comeuppance thanks to AIDs and natural disasters, abortion was about to go the way of evolution, and terrorists were being turned away at the borders en masse. The Christian dream was working and the assembled liberals, anarchists, and Satan-worshippers didn’t like it one bit.

A hush fell over the committee as their leader, Howard Dean, strode to the center of the room. The short, slightly effeminate former governor walked quickly and confidently to the podium and scanned the room. Senator Hilary Clinton and Representative Henry Waxman, seated immediately to Dean’s right and left, discreetly backed their chairs away. When Dean got going, he was liable to blind anyone in the immediate area with his spittle then take them out with a spastic chop.

Dean stood silently for a moment, surveying the crowd. The sixteen leaders seated around the large conference table represented the crème de la crème of the anti-democracy movement. At the foot of the table, billionaire financier and known Communist George Soros struck an imposing figure. Seated to his left and right were the media contacts—Socialist director Michael Moore, Republican turncoat Arianna Huffington, unfunny radio personality Al Franken, and Markos Moulitsas from Daily Kos, whatever the fuck that was. Lining the table next to them were the captains of industry—Steve Jobs of Apple, Jeffrey Brotman of Costco, Orin Smith from Starbucks, and Larry Page and Sergey Brin from Google. Next to them were the entertainers—George Clooney (atheist), Susan Sarandon (Wiccan), Jennifer Aniston (Jew), and, for the youth demographic, Sean “Puffy” Combs (fag).

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dean finally began, quietly, “I have called you all here today to address a rather disturbing trend in our country. As you are no doubt well-aware, a frightening change has come over the American public in recent years. I speak, of course, of the phenomenon known as the ‘return to God,’ or, as it is known on the Internet, the RTG.”

The committee murmured and nodded their heads in acknowledgment.

“As you know, the RTG has inspired a rash of faith and good deeds that are beginning to undermine the very fabric of the society that we have worked so hard to build. Crime is down. Church attendance is at a record high. Faith-based initiatives are starting to heal the world. Sixteen-year-old girls are keeping their babies.”

“Those babies should be dead and so should those sixteen-year-old girls!” shouted Hilary, frothing at the mouth.

“Look around you,” Dean announced to the committee. “The sixteen people in this room have more combined influence and power than the church, the President, the Congress, and the Supreme Court all put together. Michael, Arianna, Al, and Markos—not only do an army of impressionable youth hang on your every word, but the entire liberal media establishment waits patiently for you to create the news they report.”

The press raised their fists in solidarity. Except for Michael Moore, who was busy devouring an entire family-sized Kentucky Fried Chicken meal. Because he is fat. And that’s what fat people do. They eat a lot.

“George, Susan, Jennifer, Diddy—your complete takeover of the entertainment community is evident by your blockbuster string of films, television shows, records, and clothing lines. Your ability to disseminate liberal messages in every area of entertainment makes you a most valuable contribution to our team.”

Puff Daddy, stone-cold in rhinestone sunglasses, nodded for all of them.

“Steve, Jeffrey, Orin, Larry, Sergey,” Dean said, “where would our affluent brothers and sisters be if they could not get their iPods, their bulk products, their lattes, their Google search results?”

“I’ll tell you where they’d be,” Steve Jobs shouted, “they’d be living in the ghettos we’ve created through our support of the drug trade and the welfare state!”

“Amen,” Dean replied, “and I mean that in a completely non-denominational way.”

“Amen in a non-denominational way,” repeated the heads of industry.

“And finally, George Soros, our financial wizard. Your ability to outwit the Bush administration and continue making money in the face of enormous middle-class tax cuts is astonishing.”

George Soros raised his arm in a Nazi salute.

“Of course,” Dean continued, “you all know Henry and Hilary, my respected colleagues and the most powerful members of the House and Senate.”

Henry and Hilary nodded, arms crossed defiantly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I will make this brief. I’m not going to recap all of the terrifying events of the past few years. You all see what’s happening out there; it’s practically an orgy of good cheer and high-spiritedness. If we hope to continue our nearly forty year-long reign of terror, we must attack the enemy in his home.”

“And where is that, chief?” asked Clooney.

Dean flipped the light switch on an overhead projector to display a single word:

CHRISTMAS.

“Fact,” Dean continued, just starting to get revved up, “the Christmas season is the single largest period of joy and Christian indoctrination in the entire year. More people will go to church on Christmas and Christmas Eve this year than have died in any war in our nation’s history. That’s something the liberal media won’t tell you,” he winked.

“We have no option, my friends. We must hijack Christmas.”

A rumble went through the crowd as the committee members glanced at one another uneasily. Letting violent criminals rule the streets and aiding and abetting terrorist cells was one thing, but hijacking Christmas? How could this rag-tag bunch of evildoers possibly pull it off?

“If there’s one thing I hate,” Soros said, menacingly, “It’s fucking Christmas. But how do we do it, Dean? How do we kill the powerful spirit of giving that Christmas inspires?”

Dean replaced the slide with another one that read:

HAPPY HOLIDAYS.

“With language, George. There is nothing the honest men in the White House hate more than misleading language. By replacing the phrase “Merry Christmas” with “Happy Holidays,” we are creating an environment in which doubt of one’s fellow man becomes internalized in every American citizen. ‘Should I say “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays?”’ becomes a daily ethical decision that freezes people in their tracks, allowing their brains to become indoctrinated by our leftist propaganda machine. Soon, the word “Christmas” will become suspect, and soon after that, the holiday itself. Christ will be all but forgotten, and the souls of the American people will belong . . . to us!”

The room erupted in enthusiastic applause.

“In the democratic world that the Republicans want so desperately to create,” Dean screamed above the cheers, “we would put this resolution to a vote. Not in our world, soldiers! Now get to work!”

And so they did, plunging themselves into their task with gusto. Stores everywhere began to follow suit, terrified at the prospect of losing customers on a religious technicality. Nativity scenes were ripped from town squares by angry mobs of ACLU lawyers. Christmas tree displays were crowded out by the symbols of copycat holidays from other world religions. Christmas pageants were shut down by possessed school boards across the country, and bibles were sliced apart by roving gangs of feminists.

Christmas would have been over right then and there, had the bastards not forgotten one important detail.

They forgot O’ Reilly.

* * *
Bill O’ Reilly was teaching the homeless to fish when the call came in from Fox central.“Bill, it’s Roger,” said Roger Ailes, chairman of the only fair and balanced news channel on television, “there’s been a major news event and we need you here immediately.”“What is it this time, boss?” O’ Reilly asked. “Palestinians getting riled up again? Wal-Mart workers trying to unionize without regard to the long-term effects on the U.S. economy?”

“Worse,” Roger replied. “Much worse. It’s the liberals. It’s . . . Christmas.”

“I suspected as much,” O’ Reilly said. “My finally-attuned sense of cultural trends told me something was fishy. No pun intended, boys,” he chuckled to the bums.

“You’re the best, Bill,” Ailes conceded.

“I’m only as good as my intellect makes me, boss,” O’ Reilly replied, humbly. “I’m on my way.”

An hour later, O’ Reilly was comfortably ensconced in the no spin zone, breaking the news of the war on Christmas to a stupefied public. Thousands of miles away, in Washington D.C., Howard Dean watched the groundbreaking broadcast with growing fury.

“Enough!” he finally erupted. He picked up his cell phone and dialed Eli Pariser, wunderkind smear-artist of MoveOn.org, a/k/a “The Hippie Mafia.”

“Eli, it’s Howard,” he said. “Are you watching this?”

“This fucker’s gonna pay,” Pariser answered.

“You’re damn right,” agreed Dean. “I want you to take care of him, do you hear me? Do whatever you have to do. Start a letter-writing campaign. Call Meet-Ups in every city in the country. Frame him with a sex scandal. I want that meddling bastard off the air! Now!”

“Listen, Howard, I agree that O’ Reilly must be dealt with,” Pariser said, “but we gotta be smart about this. This ain’t some two-bit hack like Judy Woodruff. This is Bill O’ Reilly, the most trusted man in news. His viewers ain’t gonna buy some trumped-up sex charges. We already tried that with the falafel incident and it just didn’t stick. He’s too good. What we need is some real dirt.”

“He’s clean, Eli, you know that,” Dean said. “God knows we’ve tried to find dirt. It’s just not there.”

“Well then,” Pariser decided, “we’re gonna have to kick him where it counts. Leave it to me, Howard. This son-of-a-bitch is going down.”

* * *
The next night, viewers across the country tuned in to see Bill O’ Reilly play host to Air America’s Al Franken. O’ Reilly again smelled something fishy when Franken finally accepted his open invitation for a debate, but as a man of his word, he had to make good on his promise. At first, everything seemed to be going as planned; O’ Reilly knocked back every point Franken made with the facts and a firm-fisted, “shut up!” Little did he know at the time that he was playing right into their hands.Twelve minutes and fifteen seconds into the debate, O’ Reilly had just proven conclusively that Jesus was in fact the son of God and that God Himself preferred the phrase “Merry Christmas,” when the weasally radio host struck O’ Reilly with an underhanded blow.“Well, if you love Jesus so much,” Franken said, smarmily, “why don’t you get crucified?”

O’ Reilly was backed into a corner. He knew a talking point when he heard one. Funded by Soros’s money, the liberal media machine was already grinding its gears to take him down. He quickly jumped onto Google, and discovered, to his horror, that “CrucifyBillOReilly.com” was already registered and raking in the page hits.

As an honorable gentleman, a Peabody-award winning reporter, and a good Christian, O’ Reilly had no choice but to accept the fate he had always known would be his.

* * *
On December 25th, in front of a massive pay-per-view audience, Bill O’ Reilly was crucified. His second-to-last words were whispered quietly to his dad: “Forgive them, father, for they know not what they do.”His last words were delivered straight into the television cameras which gave him life and then took it away most cruelly.“I may not have been able to accomplish my goal of delivering peace and holiday joy to the world,” he choked, in his final breath, “but at least I always told the truth.”

* * *
And that, my friends, is the tale of the last Christmas. As you’re eating your holiday tofurkey and drinking your Starbucks eggnog latte this year, take a moment to think of the man who died for your sins and give thanks. Because I can promise he’s thinking about you. And one of these days, when you least expect it, he will return, to carry us all away to that big, no spin zone in the sky.