A letter from the front lines of the War on Christmas!

...I stumbled around with the rest of the shoppers. Everyone was in a daze, bumping into each other. I don't think any of us knew what to do, except just keep shopping, but I could tell everyone was thinking what I was. But I wasn't ready to see the DVD player prices, and I lost it.

"FIFTEEN FUCKING PERCENT OFF?", I shouted. (Sorry for the language. This war has screwed us all up) -- "FIFTEEN FUCKING PERCENT? WE'RE SUPPOSED TO BE CELEBRATING THE BIRTH OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOR HERE, AND ALL YOU CAN DO IS A FUCKING FIFTEEN PERCENT OFF?"

I knew then that I was among heathens, and I dropped all the DVDs and batteries and stuff that I had scooped up, and just left. I swear, some days I don't understand what this war is even about.

Over and over it's the same. Every damn store. Some of them just say "Happy Holidays" out front, and I don't even go in. Most say Merry Christmas, but even then, it rings hollow. If they really were celebrating Jesus, they'd have more lights. The music would be louder. The giant inflatable snowmen would be bigger, and there'd be more of them. There was one place that had a little nativity scene, and that was cool, but the baby Jesus was laying in a manger and instead of straw, they had little optical fibers that glowed all sorts of different colors. But sometimes it glowed RED, because that was one of the colors in the cycle, and when that happened it looked like they were trying to barbecue the Baby Jesus and I had to leave...

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the laboring class; especially : the class of industrial workers who lack their own means of production and hence sell their labor to live

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