This article originally appeared in the War on Christmas Issue.


At first, I was excited when I pulled Jimbo’s name out of the boss man’s Santa Hat. Jimbo seemed like an interesting dude, always wearing slick, black trench coats and cracking walnuts on his forehead. He even had all sorts of great catchphrases that he muttered under his breath, like “Children should be heard and not seen,” “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” and “Hasta la Vista, Baby.” So I went out and bought him this neat, orange Swatch from the outlets. That was my first mistake. Then I wrapped it in orange wrapping paper. Mistake number two. Last, I wrote a card and signed it, “Cheers! —Brad.” Strike three.

My first clue that this whole thing was a terrible mistake came Thursday, the eve of the big office party, when Jimbo purple nurpled our boss until he admitted time was a construct. Mr. Crispy’s nipples still chafe horribly and hang three inches lower than they ought to hang. The second clue came when I noticed Jimbo’s neck tattoo that says “Fuck the Color Orange.” I guess I’d never noticed it under his much larger face tattoo of Michael Cera wearing a leopard-print singlet and voting absentee in the Republican primaries.

I definitely should have reconsidered the note when Margaret from accounting told Jimbo that they were a “total Sam and Diane,” like from Cheers. He told her he hated Cheers and shivved her forty-six times in the back because he’s “twice the man Brutus ever was.” By this point, I genuinely feared for my life, but I’d lost the receipt and the Swatch store is notoriously difficult about returns, so I had no choice but to put it under the tree and await my fate.

“Jimbo, you’re up,” the boss said, instinctively guarding his nipples. As Jimbo sauntered over to the tree to “claim his prize,” I knew my time had come. To make matters worse, I couldn’t even stand up to defend myself because I was incredibly aroused. After opening the present and realizing what I’d done, Jimbo began to approach me. I closed my eyes and braced for impact, only for Jimbo to lean forward, kiss me tenderly on the forehead, and peel off his flesh-colored skin suit, revealing an incredibly tall toddler in a leopard-print singlet.

“You passed the test,” he said. “While I hate orange, time, and Cheers on their own, when joined together, much like the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, they form a perfect Trinity. You have shown bravery and fortitude, and for that, I, Michael Cera, will teach you the true meaning of Christmas.”

Then Michael Cera beat the shit out of me and I saw Christ for the very first time.  


—A. Zbornak