This article originally appeared in the War on Christmas Issue.
My son Andreas has been missing for the past seven months, and this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had. Usually, my fat hog would stick his hand in the fireplace to try and go to his favorite place on Earth, the urgent care center at our local children’s hospital. The last time I saw Andreas he was shaving his head in solidarity with Emma Gonzalez. That means that if he were to go to the hospital this year, everyone would think he had cancer. But thank goodness he is at large instead of in my house. Also, I don’t know what I would do this year if he were to give himself a serious burn, because he was banned from the children’s hospital last year after screaming at the volunteer dressed as Spider-man and calling him gay. This year I can just relax in front of the television and watch Judge Joe Brown yell at widows. Merry Christmas to everyone except my son Andreas; I hope he is dead.