United States, America— The price of war is something most people will never comprehend. The human toll cannot truly be conveyed by fleeting images on the six o’clock news. Sure, we may make small talk in line, waiting for a coffee or a chalupa – “Did you see the latest from Middle-East?” “Horrible, just horrible” – but those words are inevitably empty, until the day we ourselves become a casualty.

I am a victim in the war on Christmas.

I was not an active soldier; no, I am tallied as one of the innumerable civilians wounded in this cruel game of chess. A mere bystander, now forever scarred…

I was walking out of Walmart. It was a crisp December evening, the kind that makes middle aged white men feel like just maybe there still IS a place for us in this world. I was giddy over the deal I’d gotten on the Fast-and-Furious Director’s-Cut 9-movie-package. I had already opened my 64-ounce bag of buffalo jerky. And that’s when it hit me.

Literally.

Some secular hipster had tossed a stale fruitcake at the Salvation Army caroler on the sidewalk. It ricocheted off me and hit him in his chestnuts. Confusing me for the attacker, he cracked me over the head with his copper kettle faster than you can say Saturnalia. By the time the security guard made it outside a drunken Santa from the nearby Payless Shoes was already raining haymakers on me while screaming “Go back to Cuba you goddamn atheist!” I woke up in the hospital sore and confused, a doctor explaining to me that the jumbo candy cane had been removed surgically.

How did it come to this? Bill O’Reilly warned us, but we dismissed him like one more horny old Irishman who can’t keep his hands off the company merchandise. And now innocents like myself are bearing the consequences: I’m always looking over my shoulder. I have trouble sleeping. And when I do finally drift off, my dreams are haunted by images of Jerry Falwell and Richard Dawkins playing Russian Roulette. During the day the neighbor’s flashing Christmas lights send me into seizures, and I’m beginning to think that my hobbit figurines are conspiring against me. I’ve started a gofundme page for my hospital bills – please donate generously.

I’ve heard rumors of a military action against Thanksgiving. Hopefully clearer heads will prevail.In the words of Leo Tolstoy, “War – what is good for?” Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

Dave P. Zach, Senior Buffalo Mud Contributor and Kanye fixer.

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