'Twas a month before Christmas, in the quaint town of Whoville and it was snowing. One particular Who down in Whoville, little Timmy Yoo-Who, was passing the time, as most little whooligans did, by throwing snowballs at icicles.
Suddenly, a high, tinny voice rang out. "Wait!" the apparently anthropomorphic icicle said. "I am a magical Christmas icicle. If you spare me, I will grant you one Christmas wish."
A thousand wishes flitted through Timmy's head: A Fruit-by-the-Foot roll the size of a stadium. A real lightsaber that tastes like chocolate. A Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots game made of pure gold. Maybe he could even wish to be cured of his whokemia.
But Timmy, moved by the spirit of Christmas, asked for something far simpler. "I wish that Christmas wasn't so commercialized. Instead of scrambling over each other all impolite-like to get the best deals on presents, I wish people would instead give each other the best Christmas gift of all: The gift of hugs!"
There was a twinkle, a blinding flash of light and the obligatory musical flourish.
That Christmas, instead of buying presents, the Whos made them out of Elmer's glue, construction paper and macaroni. Without the Christmas rush, hundreds of stores went out of business, thousands lost their jobs and the Who stock market plummeted. Within a matter of days, Whoville had become another Whooverville. Timmy's wish had come true. He looked out the window and saw hundreds of people, evicted from their homes, hugging each other. They had to, to keep from freezing to death. Instead of the traditional Roast Beast, the denizens of Whoville had to survive on mere Roast Grinch.
Christmas has several purposes. It brings families together to allow them to fight more efficiently. It's a time where we can justify eating six dozen Snickerdoodles with a claim "we felt led by the holiday spirit" and a New Year's resolution to "start doing that jogging thing again someday."
But most of all, Christmas is a massive steroid shot into the Jose Canseco of the American economy.
It all goes back to the very first Christmas, when a host of angels appeared before a crowd of trembling shepherds. "Hark! We bring tidings of great savings and heavenly deals. Look yonder, to the east. There, JC Penney's shalt bequeath three Sharper Image Sheep Shearing kits for the price of but 17 shekels. But, lo, ye must arrive when breaks the dawn, for the line will be long and the multitude many."
Of course, the Wise Men knew they could get a far better deal by going to Hakeem's Secondhand Tabernacle and switching tags around.
"But there are other purposes to Christmas as well!" you yell at the newspaper, to the annoyance of the other people in the coffee shop. "What about all those TV Christmas specials that talk about love and joy and candy canes?" And what's the purpose of those specials? To make money. I'm guessing that by now, Charlie Brown has enough dough to hire a star NFL punter to kick Lucy's football into the tree to get his kite down. Mr. Charles Brown's actual Christmas tree is probably 20 feet tall, bronze, and imported from the Caymans.
And the purpose of Santa? Just another way for the bourgeoisie to disguise the labor of the oppressed proletariat. Santa goes by many different names: "Saint Nikolas." "Father Christmas." "Uncle Steve." Or "Tim Allen's increasingly pathetic acting career."
But in all cultures, Santa, like true love, is simply a lie told to us by society to trick us into buying greeting cards and taking showers.
Of course, being a child of intellect, I always knew that behind Santa's fuzzy white beard was a double chin of deceit.
"Come on," my 5-year-old self would say. "Do you honestly believe that a mysterious fat old man uses diminutive laborers to produce millions of suspiciously brand-name toys which he flies undetected via reindeer - not the most aerodynamic creature - to the 5.4 million people in the world on one chaotic night, bending the very fabric of space-time by breaking and entering via chimneys smaller than his considerable girth? No, Virginia, after subjecting the possibility to Occam's razor cruel edge, there is, in all likelihood, not a Santa Claus."
Then, I would reveal the grim truth. "Every being of even moderate intelligence knows that the gifts under the Christmas tree come from the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy pulling holiday shifts for a little extra cash."
Some people claim Jesus's birthday, not Santa's rampage of generosity or the American economy, is the reason for the season. This seems inaccurate. When you're eternal years old, every day is your birthday. After about the 17th infinity rolls around, even Funfetti cake begins to lose its fun.
Either way, the things we love about Christmas - the schmaltzy songs, the figgy pudding, the Yukon Corneliuses - are successful precisely because they are profitable.
But you know what product really roasts my chestnuts? Christmas trees that instead of being made out of, well, tree, are hammered out in soulless plastic factories. Instead of smelling like pine needles with just a tinge of fire hazard, these trees smell like PVC with just a tinge of underpaid labor.
I remember a time when, before the white man came, Native Americans could just walk into the forest and, using their superior hunting skills, just find trees sitting there.
Some argue it's not the quality or veracity of the tree. It's what's under the tree that matters. Unfortunately, as you age the gifts get less exciting.
I bet when Donald Trump gets yet another acquisition of a small company or canister of Traffic Cone Temptations hair dye, he smiles and politely thanks the supermodel for the present. But deep in what remains of his heart, he's disappointed. What he really wanted was LEGOs.
In the end, however, it doesn't matter what you buy this Christmas, as long as you buy. Keep the fires of commerce burning! Meet the commercialization of Christmas with outstretched arms, not to mention outstretched debit cards.
Nothing satiates the gaping maw of the American economy like the Christmas spirit.
Or, alternatively, Snickerdoodles.
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