The Pre-Emptive War Against Christmas:
Yessiree, the Rude Pundit's a-startin' a war against Christmas. Fact is, he feels so threatened by Christmas, with its stockpiles o' evil ornaments of mass destruction, the reindeer o' doom, the candy cane clouds in the sky, and the fruitcake o' sugary death, that he's declarin' a pre-emptive strike on the Happy Holiday o' Christmas. My, my, my, people, for too long we have suffered with Christmas - now it's time for Christmas to do some sufferin'.

First thing the Rude Pundit's gonna do is order in shock n' awe, motherfuckers, shock n' awe - carpet bomb that fuckin' North Pole, man, blow the shit out of the train tracks of the ol' Polar Express, take out that toy factory 'cause it's got elf rape rooms, yeah, you know it, and, aw, shit, sure, there might be some collateral damage of an Esk-i-mo or a polar bear or two takin' one fer the team, but, goddamn, the Rude Pundit wants to blow some Christmas up. That's right, bitches, the Liberal Army of Rudeness is gonna fuck Christmas up.

We got us a deck o' cards, we do, with a bunch of fuckin' elves on 'em, eight motherfuckin' regular reindeer, one goddamn red-nosed one, Mrs. Claus, Jack Frost, motherfuckin' Heat Miser, and the Ace o' Spades hisself, Santa Claus. Yeah, we'll be goin' mall to fuckin' mall, checkin' to make sure each Santa there ain't in disguise. We'll leap through glass roofs of yer food courts, rappel down into the Winter Wonderlands, faux North Poles, and round up everyone in costume, all the little fuckin' photo-takin' helpers, and every mall Santa we can find.

We'll take 'em back to our network of dingy liberal basements and warehouses, strip that fuckin' red suit off those fat, bearded fucks, shave 'em down 'cause it offends their beliefs, use newspaper reprints of "Yes, Virginia" to wipe our asses. We'll strap 'em to boards, shove marsmallows in their mouths, and dip their heads in vats of hot chocolate 'til they're drownin', attach electrodes with jingle bells on 'em to their nutsacks so when they do that shimmy-shake it can sound like we're on a one-horse open-sleigh. We'll keep askin' 'em, over and over, "Where's the real Santa? What's he plannin'? Give us the big fat man and we'll stop fuckin' you with Prancer's femur bone." We'll keep those poor fucks locked up for years, lettin' out only a few whose beards turned out to be fake, whose bellies were pillows, to show we have mercy.

Holy shit, a war on Christmas is gonna be fuckin' fun, man, with everyone starin' at the shiny lights and low prices at a Wal-Mart, thinkin' that the white phosphorus we're droppin' is just snow, snow, let it fuckin' snow. It'll smart, but it'll clear out the lines at the cash registers. Yeah, we'll be goin' into your Marts of Wal, uzis pointed, impalin' everyone who says "Merry Christmas" with a fake pine tree and stringin' 'em up like mistletoe as an example to others. Who's gonna give us a kiss under the corpses of Christmas?

And you might ask, but what about Jesus? Oh, don't worry about that cave-dwellin' motherfucker. He's in the mix still. See, the links between Jesus and Santa are absolutely clear. Santa's just one battle in the war on Christmas. Sure, you may think that Jesus might find Santa an odious commercialization of his holy birth, an anathema to faith, but, man, it's a war on Christmas, motherfuckers, and anyone who's connected with Christmas has gotta go. Yeah, don't you worry. One day, we'll find Jesus. And we'll gut 'em like a fish. 'Cause that's what liberals do. Right? Right?