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In This Issue

• Club Cash, with Catches
• When Friends "Go Greek"
• Father Christmas Found Dead
• Czech Patriot-Citizen Shot
• Promised Floor, Chosen People
• Best of Times, Worst of Times in Manhattanville
• Borat Movie’s Frat Boys Got Love for Hos
• The New Holy "Trinity"
• Interspecies Tension Outside Low Fuels Vicious War
• Vampire Christ
• Tales of the Inexpressible
• Jew Ruins Christmas, Ramadan Up Next, Kwanzaa Left Alone
• Seas Trek: The Next Generation
• SEAS: Survivor
• Thanksgiving: The Last Supper of the Wampanoags
• CAVA Saves Christmas?
• The Evolution of Ashlee Simpson's Face
• THEY Watch

Andres Vedova

My cell phone beeped.  The Elders had another mission for me.

"Agent Halvah here," I answered.

"Agent, we have a dangerous mission for you.  In previous years, we have sent a top officer to infiltrate a gentile family and find out just what they do during Christmas.  Obviously, we have our regular deflection team in place to make everyone think that we're eating Chinese food and going to the movies while our scientists collect samples of Christian baby blood for our yearly matzo production.  This year we are sending you.

"We have arranged for you to attend Christmas festivities with an average gentile family.  They believe that you are a distant cousin; we have a lineage chart at H.Q. for you to memorize.  The last fifteen agents we have sent have all failed and were killed in action.  Let us remember the agony of Agent Kreplach."  How could I forget?  The kid had had candy canes shoved in places where candy canes should not go.  "We wish you luck, Agent Halvah."

At H.Q., I was issued my camouflage: an itchy white sweater patterned with grinning snowmen.  It was hideous, but the Elders told me that according to the gentiles, it was fashionable and appropriate to appear in such ridiculous attire.  They outfitted me with wine and angel-shaped cookies to present to my hosts as a peace offering.  I was also given a pair of nearly opaque sunglasses and some anti-epilepsy medication, but I did not know what they were for.  After being presented with a list of objectives, I was sent on my way.

As a part of my research, I had to attend a religious ceremony.  The family and I were instructed to sit on primitive wooden pews that were extremely uncomfortable.  Had these people not learned of padded benches, or even preposterously well-padded movie theater-style seats?  Clearly their culture had not evolved to learn the truth, that God only listens to the prayers of people in recliners.  The service was excessively long, with so much standing and sitting that it felt like an extended game of Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.  The ceremony climaxed with a ritual in which the adherents ate the body and blood of their savior, who, apparently, died 2,000 years ago.  I was appalled at this cannibalistic, necrophagic ritual and slipped to the bathroom to take notes and avoid it.

After the worship ended, seemingly several days later, we adjourned to the family's house for their customary meal.  As their car approached their home, I began to convulse uncontrollably while frothing at the mouth.  I could see nothing but bright blinking lights, as though the Sun were a giant strobe.

"I see you like our Christmas light display!" the matriarch of the family chirped.  I managed to stop shaking long enough to put on my sunglasses and swallow my pills.  She smiled at me, thinking the noises I had made while choking on my tongue confirmed her statement.

During the meal, we consumed several courses, with elder family members forcing me to eat despite the fact that I was full after the third course of mashed potatoes and green bean casserole.  I stopped counting at twelve courses, but there were many more before the family matriarch brought out a huge portion of pig carcass.  She called it "ham."  I blanched.  On the one hand, I would clearly be found out if I refused to eat the meat.  On the other, the Elders would surely excommunicate me if I committed this sin.  I was stuck between a ham and a hard place, indeed.

"What's wrong, Marissa?" the patriarch of the family asked me.  "Don't you want any ham?  Don't tell me you're one of those liberal, gay, Jew, commie, pinko, vegan, Demmycrats who don't eat ham."

"Not in the slightest, sir," I replied, trying to keep my panic from becoming apparent, "I'm just... uh... my father was killed in a hunting accident.  Hunting for pigs.  Gay pigs."

"Oh, that's all right," he replied, seemingly appeased by my answer.  "Here, have some more goose."

Afterwards, we sat around to talk and admire the presents stacked under the large, dripping, gaudily-ornamented foliage.  Needles were scattered across the living room floor; the family had no intention of removing them, saying that it would spoil the atmosphere.  Apparently, squalor is considered ambience in this culture-extraordinary!  The house was also decorated with curious pictures of an obese old man named Santa Claus who they said lives at the North Pole and gives every gentile in the world their presents.  I wanted to tell the family that that was statistically impossible, as a man would be turned into gelatinous, pink goo if he were to fly as fast as would be necessary for him to bring gifts to a billion Christians.  Not to mention the fact that there is no land at the North Pole, only ice, and this man is far too hefty for it to support him.  If this Santa Claus lived at the North Pole, he would drown immediately.

In the course of my conversation with the family, the elderly grandmother asked me why my bangs covered so much of my face.  I mumbled an excuse about having forehead acne so that she would not press the issue.  This, however, was not enough for the old woman.  With a speed that defied her years, she came over to me and lifted my hair, exposing what I had sought most desperately to hide-my horns.

"Jew!" she shrieked.  "Jew!"  A siren went off, alerting the other gentiles in the neighborhood to my position.

I'm writing this now from the upstairs bathroom.  I fear that I may not make it out alive.  As I type this on my miniature laptop, I can hear a crowd pounding at the locked door, calling for my blood.  I can only hope that the gentiles have discovered wireless internet technology so that my gory, minty death will not be in vain.  With my information, we Jews will one day be able to take over Christmas once and for all.