We all know about the city’s holiday trees–but here are four lesser known spots for holiday lights that are totally worth visiting.

By Meredith Greene

One of the best parts of the holiday season is the glittering lights and snazzy decorations, and we all know about the city’s plethora of holiday trees. But here are four under-the-radar spots to see holiday lights that Manhattanites might not immediately think of that are definitely, totally worth seeing:

1. Holiday Light Spectacular
South Slope’s Holiday Light Spectacular is the amazing two-man show of homeowner Chris Schneider and friend Ryan Powers, who make all their displays by hand. Each annual show features a different theme and storyline—think “The Grinch House” to 1950s styles–and this year it’s North Pole’s Got Talent. Shows are every 20 minutes from 5-11pm daily. 310A 22nd Street, Brooklyn.

For the complete list, please visit newyorkfamily.com.

“Merry Christmas,” I casually wished a guy I’d seen working out at my gym in Prospect Heights as he passed me in the locker room. He stopped with a quizzical look on his face.

“Err, bro, I’m Jewish,” he said.

“Oh, sorry,” I mumbled, shocked. This was the first time in my life I’d been reprimanded for trying to be nice. As if to dispel any hardcore religious significance he may have perceived in my seasonal greeting, I told him that I was not a Christian either, but a Hindu.

At least Hanukkah was on the radar in New York. The gym I attended had both a Menorah and a Christmas tree. As a Hindu, I was disappointed that Diwali didn’t even get a mention outside the Indian community, falling marginally outside the festive season. I didn’t take it personally, but perhaps I should have. I’d moved to the States from my native England a year prior to the gym incident and quickly realized that part of being an American was choosing your spiritual side and sticking to it. A Hindu wishing a Jew a Happy Noel was clearly politically incorrect.

My wife, a Catholic from Trinidad, had both Christian and Hindu relatives, and from an early age was raised to celebrate all her island’s diverse cultures. She’d been fairly relaxed about marrying someone outside her faith. We had a Hindu wedding ceremony in Danbury, Conn. But when we looked for a church in New York to allow us to have a “blessing of the rings,” we were turned down by several before finding a liberal denomination in Greenwich Village. Would my wife become influenced by U.S. culture and pick her side, too? What about our kids? With the unrelenting marketing muscle that St. Nick wields over other religions in the States, I could imagine all my family joining forces with him and his throng, leaving me a lonely, isolated Hindu. I’d be banished to the outer fringes of ragtag global religions along with Sikhs, Buddhists and Muslims, a kind of shantytown outside the Emerald City of Christianity. Maybe that was why the Jewish guy at the gym reacted so forcefully when I misnamed his holiday. I wondered if Jews feel that they are one overly zealous right-wing Christian president away from joining the rest of us in America’s religious soup kitchen of homeless faiths.

Now I understand the delicate protocol of correctly naming each person’s specific religious celebration. In England, wishing someone a Merry Christmas did not connote a solemn remembrance of three kings being led by a star, a stable and a virgin birth. If anything, it means going down to the pub, eating lots of food, opening presents and time off work. A joke I remember from my childhood, told annually by one of my friend’s parents, was, “The problem with Christmas is that they always have to bring religion into it.”

The U.K. has its issues and may be a long way off from electing a non-white prime minister, but it is a largely secular country. The deputy prime minister, Nick Clegg, is an atheist, and the leader of the opposition, Ed Miliband, is Jewish (an unheard of combination in the U.S.), and Christmas describes a season more than a religious observance.

My Hindu family, along with my relatives, partook in the seasonal activities of decorating a tree, opening presents and eating a traditional turkey dinner while the Queen gave her annual speech, as did most of England’s multicultural society. It never occurred to us to do otherwise.

When it comes to the festive season, Britain, along with most of Europe, just doesn’t take things that seriously. It’s why many American far-right Christian firebrands believe it’s a continent of socialist sinners. I prefer to see it as a spiritually tolerant place that has enough to worry about without bringing religion into the mix to complicate matters further.

With that said, just in case, I wish you Happy Holidays.

“It’s that time of year. This is what we get on the Upper East Side,” said Officer Tarik Hunter, the 19th Police Precinct’s crime prevention specialist. He cited eight reported incidents of pickpocketing in his district since August, most of which have occurred in the past month. This increase mirrors last year’s numbers, and, as Hunter emphasized, only accounts for thefts that have been reported to NYPD: Many people do not realize that their belongings are missing until well after the incident, he said, so they are not sure if they were robbed or simply lost something.

A community affairs officer in Midtown North, Manhattan’s 18th Precinct, confirmed a similar spike in larcenies in his district. “It’s usually the same [each year],” he said, and added that the city’s heavily commercial areas endure a regular holiday increase in shoplifting as well as pickpocketing.
Thefts are, indeed, up across the city this month in keeping with annual trends, the NYPD reported. As well as in crowded public transportation vehicles, they said that many sneaky crooks strike in restaurants, bars and outdoor benches, where absent-minded visitors sometimes leave bags unattended and ripe for picking.

“I’m surprised. I haven’t heard of any [increase],” said John Barrett, a commuter waiting at a bus stop along Madison Avenue, whose buses have been heaviest hit by Upper East side pickpockets, according to Officer Hunter. “Pickpockets—that sounds like something from Charles Dickens.”
Despite his startled reaction, Barrett said that he is diligent in guarding his belongings on public transportation, and checks his pockets whenever someone brushes against him—a habit that he says has won him more than a few mean looks from innocent passersby. “It’s so quick that somebody can take your stuff and leave with it,” he said. “I just try to take precautions.”

Another bus rider was less surprised to hear about the holiday-time thieves. “I’m a New Yorker wherever I go,” said Peggy McDermott-Roberts, a city native who recently returned from a trip to California. “I look at my purse 29 times before and after I get on any bus.” She noticed that on her return to the city, people seemed more anxious on public transport around this time of the year, a bit more frenzied and less attentive.

A third commuter, Sandra Hasman, attributed the increase in thefts to the city’s seasonal influx of tourists. “There are so many more out-of-towners here for the holiday,” she observed. The NYPD confirmed that tourists were prime targets for pickpockets, because they tend to be less aware of the danger and more preoccupied with navigating the city.

However, locals are always at risk, too, officers emphasized. According to an NYPD safety report, pickpockets often hit crowds on bus or subway rides when passengers are so crammed together that it is hard to distinguish the feeling of a sneaky hand. New York pickpockets are also known to orchestrate some elaborate distractions, like a staged shouting match between two apparent strangers, to hold commuters’ attention long enough to steal from them.

The NYPD is taking measures to combat the annual spike, but they say that the best prevention is awareness. Use handbags with zippers and locks, they recommend, and never carry wallets in back pockets. If your find your pocket picked on a bus or train, they suggest that you immediately yell out to warn passengers and the driver / conductor. In their words, “Don’t be afraid to be loud.”

How Seasonal Affective Disorder could put a damper on the holiday spirit

Like the planets orbit the sun, our lives spin around the seasons. These subdivisions of the year do more than signal us when it’s time to whip out our Mackage coats and begin fireside chats with friends over which artist sings the best “Baby It’s Cold” rendition. They inform us that time is passing and events are moving forward, as is the natural order of things. As New Yorkers, we have an internal hourglass that marks the passing of time until the sand has run out, signaling our earmuffs and legwarmers that winter has arrived! Not one to be late to the party, winter arrives on cue and sashays down Sullivan Street in all her glory while dusting off her snowy skin and casting an opalescent sheen over downtown’s cobblestone streets and awnings.

The red cups brimming with spices and peppermint have returned to ye faithful Starbucks, Broadway has become the mecca for ambling tourists hiding behind maps in search of NYC tchotchkes, and Christmas-tree vendors pepper the once-subdued streets from Nolita to Soho. It’s hard to imagine a downtown without a winter, just as it would be impossible to imagine the harbor without the Statue of Liberty. But for some, winter doesn’t evoke the same jubilation, and getting through the season can feel like navigating a dark labyrinth of gloom and despair.

Those severely impacted by winter’s shorter days and long frigid nights might be at risk for Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). Recognized by the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 4th Edition (DSM-IV), SAD is described as a subtype of a major depressive episode. During winter’s reign, our brains produce increased levels of the sleep-inducing hormone melatonin. For those affected by SAD, one theory is that a biochemical imbalance of melatonin could lead to a shift in one’s internal hourglass, causing unhealthy behaviors that require medical intervention.

Typical symptoms of SAD include depressed mood, lethargy, lack of interest in activities, social withdrawal and a craving for sweets and carbohydrates. Those affected also spend inordinate amounts of time sleeping and have difficulty leaving their beds. As a result of weight gain and decreased interest in sex and physical contact, SAD sufferers also experience feelings of misery, shame, hopelessness and loss of self-esteem. These symptoms usually occur like clockwork beginning in November or December, peaking during January and February, and dissipating by March or April, depending on how quickly sunlight returns from hibernation. Though anyone can suffer from SAD, an overwhelming majority are young adults and women.

The key to diagnosing SAD is a recurrence of these deleterious symptoms during two successive winters followed by a routine remission in the spring. And while those who suffer from SAD may experience these symptoms at an extreme, there might be a greater number of people at risk for a milder assortment of SAD symptoms categorized as the “winter blues.” For the less-extreme blues, individuals might experience the decreased energy, increased appetite and feelings of sleepiness without feelings of depression and anxiety.

A season that should be welcomed with Bryant Park ice-skating arms thus becomes a dismal march through gray days, but there is some relief. Clinicians and those who have previously been affected by SAD now know when to expect the onset, how long it will last and how to treat it head-on. Special lamps are just one method that has proven helpful. And for downtowners in need of a quick Vitamin D pick-me-up, I suggest long runs along the glistening Hudson River or an idyllic Washington Square Park walk. Though anyone in cold northern cities can feel winter’s burn, downtown New Yorkers are lucky in that we’re surrounded by environmental therapy. Here’s to a healthy and happy winter for all.

Surely, seeing really is believing and is bound to generate more empathy and tangible help. And just being there helps the tens of thousands afflicted, literally in our own backyard, know they are not forgotten and it’s not business as usual elsewhere. It’s up to the media, especially, to keep showing the ongoing devastation and telling the heartbreaking stories.

Before my dinner companion made this most telling remark, the column in progress began with the televised Rockefeller Center tree lighting extravaganza and how I thought calls for Hurricane Sandy aid should have been center-staged and not occasional, relatively low-key requests. And before they performed, the featured artists could have showed some sympathy and brought attention to the massive hardship and loss in places only a few miles away.

But mostly it was showbiz as usual, with too much spectacular background décor. The magnificent tree is all we need, and indeed less is more when it comes to its lighting. As always, I wished the performers had asked the adoring crowd there to sing along, but with fewer ho-ho-ho songs and no “can’t live without you” lyrics. Include family, close friends and good neighbors in the lyrics of the wildly popular “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” And “a home” is what tens of thousands in the tri-state area now most desperately need.

On a closing note, the Park Avenue memorial trees are the most meaningful and serenely lovely of all the city’s December traditions. Once again, this parade of illuminated fir trees are in hallowed memory of those who gave their lives in this nation’s wars. This blessed tradition was started in 1945 by several Manhattan mothers whose sons perished in that war, which so tragically was only a taste of more to come. As the holiday season hits full swing, don’t forget that above all, we must pray and work to prevent this most awful of all human-made disasters!
Dewingbetter@aol.com

THIS WEEKEND DOESN’T HAVE TO BE THE END OF THE LINE FOR THESE AUTUMN DELIGHTS

Thanksgiving is the last hurrah for the multitude of flavors that come together to spell “autumn” in our little lizard brains. Herbs like sage and rosemary, Brussels sprouts and squash, apples and ginger—soon we’ll say goodbye to all that and it’ll be all Christmas, all the time. Chocolate and peppermint will flavor absolutely everything—hell, they’ve already snuck their way into the Pringles can, once a bastion of salt. Orange and cinnamon will somehow find their way into the very air around you, like surplus oxygen pumped onto the casino floors in Vegas.

Some of this has to do with geographical seasonality—there’s only so much you can grow when there’s been 2 feet of snow on the ground for a month. But much more of it is due to the manufactured seasonality of holidays as consumer events. How are people supposed to go wild shopping for Christmas gifts on Black Friday if they still feel like it’s Thanksgiving, a time for being grateful for what you already have? How can you keep latte consumption running high without introducing a new limited-time-only flavor every three weeks?

Turns out seasonality means less and less these days, both from a meteorologic and a material perspective. Starbucks rolled out its holiday-branded cups weeks ago, along with all the eggnog/gingerbread/peppermint coffee-type beverages that go in them. And with a hurricane, massive snowstorm and mid-60s temperatures all within a week of each other, climate and season have only a passing acquaintance. So check out some of these autumnal flavors after Thanksgiving and assert your independence from the whole charade.

If you think you don’t like Brussels sprouts, you’re not alone. If all you’ve ever had are Aunt Gertie’s boiled-while-the-turkey’s-in rendition, there’s really not much to love. Cooked plainly, the little guys’ crucifer heritage comes out loud and clear, packing all the stench of boiled cabbage into a tiny, bite-sized parcel. But roasting opens them up to a world of caramelized sweetness, a slight bitter edge and the delightful contrast of tender interior and crisp exterior. Eat these anywhere, but especially at Mile End Sandwich (53 Bond St., mileenddeli.com), where they’re halved and tossed with shredded radicchio and a bacon vinaigrette that nestles in all the right crevices. It’s just the right thing to cut the richness of their signature Ruth Wilensky sandwich (that’s fried salami for us non- Montréalers).

Sure, there’ll be apple cider till Easter, but that over-spiced, over-sweetened hooch doesn’t do the apple justice. Over the years, New York has been home to some of the most brilliant apple breeders, who created a multitude of varieties that coax bright tartness, honeyed sweetness, floral undertones and more from the fruit. Go straight to the source at the Union Square farmers’ market, which is open all year round (apples keep for months in the right cold storage!), or try some of the seasonal sandwiches at Num Pang (21 E. 12th St. or 140 E. 41st St., numpangnyc.com), the Cambodian sandwich shop whose creations defy borders. Roasted, spiced chicken comes with slices of pickled apple, turkey breast is topped with a very Thanksgiving cranberry-apple chutney, and glazed pork belly is accompanied by Asian pear (OK, not an apple, but just as autumnal!).

For a full-on one-two punch of fall, try Crispo (240 W. 14th St., crisporestaurant.com) and their butternut squash tortelloni with chestnuts and sage. The below-the-radar Northern Italian spot (no mean feat for a restaurant that sits right on 14th Street) serves a variety of soul-warming pastas in a romantically low-lit, brick-lined room, along with plenty of their signature ingredients: prosecco, prosciutto and parmigiano. But the handmade pockets of rich, dense squash sweetened by the street vendor favorite, roasted chestnuts, and made savory with browned butter and fried sage, take the seasonal prize.

Photo Courtesy of Wiki Commons

How does one do—notoriously pessimistic and humorously insightful essayist— David Rakoff’s work justice? How does one begin to fumble for the words to embody his literary range? Rakoff, who just passed away at the age of 47, wrote and spoke in a way that so remarkably reflected our uncertain collective reality—in his profundity, in his candidness, and in analogies so apt and relevant they surely required years of careful research into our human minutiae. In Rakoff’s essays, there’s deep pain, there’s sardonic humor, there’s desperate hatred, there’s even rhyme (sometimes). In reading Rakoff’s essays, you find yourself wondering over and over, how did he know? How did he so scrupulously pinpoint the intricacies of the human psyche? Below are just a few surface-scratching must-read hits from Rakoff’s prolific career:

In “The Waiting,” an essay which appeared last year in the New York Times Magazine, Rakoff describes the process of battling a long illness, while the greatest struggle at times seems resisting the urge to overanalyze his caregivers‘ words and demeanors as significant, as a predictor of outcomes. Rakoff writes, of the encouraging and empathetic feedback we are programmed to deliver to one another, “…as an anticipatory tool, it does not soften the blow, indeed it does the opposite. It leaves you exposed, like grabbing onto the trunk of a tree for support in a storm only to find the wood soaked through and punky and coming apart in your hands.” Undeniably, anyone who is human comprehends the feeling Rakoff captures, remembers the exact moment even, when plumbing the depths of desperation he loaded undue significance on the words of another. Anyone who is human recalls the moment in which he became—however fleetingly—superstitious.

In the essay “Stiff as a Board, Light as a Feather,” which Rakoff recited on This American Life earlier this year, he describes the experience of having a nerve in his left arm severed, causing him to have the occasional “gesture of someone who danced…which is very different,” he says, “from having been a dancer.” During the show, Rakoff elucidates the processes our bodies undergo, which we rarely question until they manifest as physical abnormalities. “There are some questions in life the very speaking of which are their own undoing,” he explains, for instance, “is this real?” It is the question, ultimately, which awakens him to the reality of his situation. Rakoff manages to take his ravaging sickness, and not only approach it with objectivity, but extrapolate to some wider, more philosophical meaning about the nature of consciousness. Whether or not he fully intends to, Rakoff can scarcely avoid offering us an outstretched hand, a gateway toward common identification. It’s never merely his experience, but what his tells us about all our own.

In 1996, on This American Life, Rakoff described his time spent dressed as Sigmund Freud in Barney’s department store Christmas window display in “Christmas Freud.” A version of the essay also appears in his collection, Fraud. “In the window I fantasize about starting an entire Christmas Freud movement,” says Rakoff, waxing on the complex relationship between psychoanalysis, spirituality and commerce across generations. “In department stores across America, people leave display window couches snifflingly and meaningfully whispering, ‘Thank you, Christmas Freud,’” he writes. Not afraid to go over the top, Rakoff undauntedly appropriated the situations which befell him with the mastery and dexterity of a world-class storyteller.

Rakoff writes in “All The Time We Have,” in his collection Half-Empty, of the death of his therapist of ten years (Rakoff was something of a self-professed therapy junkie over the years). The tribute is poignant and heart-wrenching, as he explores the complex relationship with a man who, in all his human vulnerability, ultimately required Rakoff’s approval just as badly. Rakoff writes so acutely of the push-and-pull struggle for approval, the hunger that reveals itself to be quite insatiable, the games we humans play, the waters we test, only to discover we are insatiable. Rakoff writes of this challenge we do not want to win because we fear its results: “this confirmation that you have triumphed again and managed to gull yet another mark, except this time it was the one person you’d hoped might be immune to your ever-creakier, puddle-shallow, sideshow-barker variation on “adorable,” even though you’d been launching this campaign weekly with single-minded concentration from day one.”

Finally, but by no means least or remotely comprehensively, Rakoff writes of attending a Tibetan Buddhist retreat led by Steven Seagal in an essay also appearing in Fraud. Portraying this outlandish, over-the-top New Age-y, self-help ritual, Rakoff is at his most poetic: “Twenty years ago we would have been readers of Robert Persig. Now we own well-thumbed copies of The Jew in the Lotus. We’ve done yoga. We’ve been lactose intolerant.” His fresh, concise commentary, which easily disavows the usual stereotypes—while marrying the expected with the uncanny and cynical—is so slick, so layered, there’s something new and potent to unearth on every read.

Rakoff published three books of essays and contributed widely to anthologies, newspapers and magazines. He was a regular on the radio show This American Life. All Rakoff’s contributions to This American Life can be found here.

CHURCH OF OUR LADY OF THE ROSARY 7 State St. (at Battery Park), 212- 269-6865.
Christmas Day service Sunday, Dec. 25, 11 a.m.

JOHN STREET METHODIST CHURCH 44 John Street (betw. Dutch & Nassau Sts.), www.johnstreetchurch. org.
Christmas Eve Mass: carols, candles and Holy Communion Saturday, Dec. 24, 7 p.m.
Christmas Day Mass: celebration of God’s word and table Sunday, Dec. 25, 11 a.m.

LOWER MANHATTAN COMMUNITY CHURCH P.S./I.S. 89 Auditorium, 201 Warren St. (at West St.), www. lowermanhattanchurch.com.
Second annual Candlelight Christmas Eve Service Saturday, Dec. 24, 4 p.m.

ST. PAUL’S CHAPEL 74 Trinity Place (betw. Rector & Barclay Sts.), www.trinitywallstreet.org.
Christmas Eve midnight Mass Saturday, Dec. 24, 11 p.m.-12:30 a.m.
Christmas Day Holy Eucharist Sunday, Dec. 25, 8-8:45 a.m.

ST. PETER’S ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH 22 Barclay St. (betw. Church & Broadway Sts.), 212-233-8355.
St. Peter’s Church Mass Saturday, Dec. 24, 8 a.m. & 4 p.m., Sunday, Dec. 25, 8:00 a.m., 9:00 a.m. & noon.

ST. JOSEPH’S CHAPEL Gateway Plaza 500 (near World Financial Center), 212-466-0131.
St. Joseph’s Chapel Mass Sunday, Dec. 25, 10 a.m. & noon.

SYNAGOGUE FOR THE ARTS 49 White Street (betw. Church & Broadway Sts.), www.synagogueforthearts.org.
Chanukah services Tuesday, Dec. 20–Tuesday, Dec. 27 at 7 p.m.

Photo By Patrick Rehm

He says, “The so-called Christians… converted the feast of the sun god into a celebration of the birth of Jesus…” Actually, “Christmas” was created in the third century when Constantine (who ironically had become a Christian by then) refused to allow the celebration of Jesus’ birth as a separate holiday, but instead required it to be “subsumed” into the late-year pagan celebration of Saturnalia, which celebrated Saturn, the god of agriculture and the harvest (not the sun). N.B. There is an alternative claim that the Christians wanted their celebration to coincide with Saturnalia, but this is less likely.

Mr. McCourt also says, “Nobody seems to know how St. Nicholas rose to such popularity.” St. Nicholas was a wealthy do-gooder in Turkey in the early third century. According to one source, “Many stories are told of his generosity, as he gave his wealth away in the form of gifts to those in need, especially children. Legends tell of him dropping bags of gold down chimneys or throwing the bags through the windows where they landed in stockings hung near the fireplace to dry… Some years later, Nicholas became a bishop; hence the long-flowing gown, white beard and red cape… Eventually [after his death], the Catholic Church started celebrating Christmas, and St. Nicholas was incorporated into the season… When the Reformation took place, the new Protestants no longer desired St. Nicholas as their ‘gift-giver,’ as he was too closely associated with the Catholic Church…. [E]ach country… developed its own gift-giver. In France, he was known as Pere Noel. In England, he was Father Christmas… To the Dutch, he was Sinterklass, which eventually… became ‘Santa Claus.’”

Finally, Mr. McCourt says, “The 25th of December is an arbitrary date of birth.” It is. That date was actually chosen in 350 A.D. by Julius I, then Bishop of Rome. Mr. McCourt then suggests a late March birth date for Jesus. Here he is probably incorrect. We know from Luke that John the Baptist was exactly six months older than Jesus. And there is evidence from historical sources that John was born in the spring, likely March or April. If so, this would mean that Jesus was most likely born in September or October—which is likely why Constantine chose Saturnalia to include the Christian celebration, since it was the closest major holiday.

Rev. Ian Alterman
Upper West Side

Letters have been edited for clarity, style and brevity.

Prior to that event, the Romans celebrated the festival Saturnalia, a time of big feasts, bellowing bawdy ballads, gift giving and decking ye olde halls with holly, ivy and other green foliages. The idea being that evergreens are symbols of life and fertility and that they would keep out the winter’s dark demons of despair and depression.

Nobody seems to know exactly how St. Nicholas rose to such popularity. The Brits call him “Father Christmas,” as they believe he has a special interest in the wants and needs of the denizens of the United Kingdom. Some say he was a bishop who saved three daughters of an inn keeper from prostitution by giving each a bag of gold for their dowry. Holding three bags of gold also made him the patron saint of pawn-brokers and bankers.

In some European traditions, Santa has a helper who carries a birch rod for beating bad children. In Ireland, we were told to pray for what we wanted for Christmas and, providing we were good boys, Santa would be good to us. If we were bad boys, Santa would fly right over our hovel. We, the brothers Frank, Michael and Alphie, must have been the rottenest little kids in Christendom, ’cause Santa never stopped at our chimney. It makes one wish to have lived in Roman times, when dirty doings were fully rewarded.

Back to Jesus Christ, Esq. The 25th of December is an arbitrary date of birth, and not recorded until 400 years after the event. It says somewhere in the Judaic tradition that a person dies on the same day she is conceived. Now that means the man was conceived March 25, right after St. Patrick’s Day.

I am wondering if we couldn’t recalculate this birthday to the middle of July and leave December free to bring back the Saturnalia orgies. Which reminds me, the next time you get under the mistletoe, take a gander at the little white berries nestling in the greenery. Those berries, according to legend, are said to be the semen of the ancient Celtic gods.

Back to the Brits. Because drinking and dirty doings and debauchery did not cease, the beloved Oliver Cromwell decided to abolish Christmas, which the British Parliament did in 1647, with the result that George Wanker Bush was elected in 2000 A.D. That ban lasted 13 years because the most terrifying thing to a conservative is the thought that somewhere, somehow people are enjoying themselves.

There you have it, random thoughts on Christmas and Jesus. If you are reading this, don’t come back until we have a single payer health plan.