Monday: Smoke billows upward in endless curls along the horizon while my beleaguered ears grow used it seems to the muffled rhythm of cannon-fire in the distance. I’m afraid the situation can now be described only as bleak. Rumors are rampant that the liberals have been kidnapping portly white haired gentlemen, binding their hands behind them, then hanging them from telephone poles, but not before hoisting signs around their necks reading “Ho-ho-ho,” as if taunting the very name of Christmas. I have yet to verify this with my own eyes however. Hurried, chaotic whispers in the streets claim the rebels might be making inroads against the godless bastards to the east, but who knows what to believe at this juncture? Field hospitals are packed with bullet-riddled rebels and, of course, the battered but still-clinging-to-life wounded of anyone caught watching FOX News. Supply lines have been cut off and I fear all may be lost. Pray for me.
Tuesday: My platoon came upon a cabin just outside of town. Seeing smoke emanating from the chimney, we checked it out. Sure enough, there were stockings hanging by the fireplace. White lace. Victoria’s Secret. Bastards. Is nothing sacred?
Wednesday: Good news! We have captured a spy among our ranks! I myself had suspicions about him from day one when he told me his son was named Sean (after Hannity). Following a brief infliction of a new interrogation technique – namely a tape of Gilbert Gottfried singing “Oh, Holy Night” – we learned that he was assigned by his Field Marshal to a regiment dedicated solely to poinsettia eradication. He stubbornly adhered to only this story when we threatened him with a second bout of Gilbert, at which time he completely broke, spilling his guts out about caroling sheet music theft squadrons, tinsel burning, Christmas tree-farm poisonings and the veritable SS of the opposition: manger vandalism. This is a major coup on our part, one that should infuse our dwindling ranks with some semblance of hope.
Thursday: Rumor has it that anyone seen wearing red and white is shot on sight. I tried to convey this to a clueless, hard-of-hearing geriatric clad in the verboten colors but all he did was stare back at me, confusion reigning in his sunken, dim bulb eyes. Heard later the old codger didn’t make it. Yesterday, a decoded message informed us that that our enemy has become even more ruthless, declaring that anyone found wearing a Santa hat is to be decapitated on the spot, their torso-bereft head then mounted like a star atop twelve-foot pine trees scattered throughout village squares. “Lets Charlie know who did this,” the message read, whatever the hell that means.
Friday: A brief respite from otherwise plummeting morale occurred with a much welcomed truckload of, granted, somewhat stale Christmas-Cookies-Ready-to-Eat (CCREs). Smiles abounded - if only for a spell - somewhat vanquishing the thousand-yard stares that inhabit the eyes of most every newbie. (Seems like a lifetime ago for me.) Some of us even found ourselves sipping the ultimate contraband, spiked eggnog, and singing “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.” Darned if we didn’t feel better.
Saturday: Too shattered to share any details of what they’re calling midnight massacre. Safe to say it was gruesome.
Sunday: Hearing the relentless grind of tanks growing louder, I feel Christmas will fall very soon. This being so, it seems the height of folly to purchase gifts this year. But, hey, look at all the money I’ll save! Ho-ho-ho!!!
BILL
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