A Realistic Account Of The First Christmas
By: Michael Kellman
Tags: Jesus, Christmas, Satire, Humor, Life

A Realistic Account Of The First Christmas

The Bible tells it differently.

By Michael Kellman & Alec Winshel

Image by herbert2512 from Pixabay

I’ll admit that I’m not the perfect husband. I don’t like doing chores. I sleep late some mornings. I get jealous when my wife cheats on me with deities. But, my-wife’s-lover-dammit, I try my best to be a good husband and father. When it finally came time to deliver our sweet boy, I pulled out all the stops.

My wife was in tremendous pain. Her breath came in laboring gasps as I brought her to the back shed. The fresh air would be better for Mary than the musty air in our hut. All the parenting books say so. I put down as much straw as I could find, fighting our ass, Samuel, for his share. Samuel, my-wife’s-lover-bless-him, eventually seemed to understand that Mary was in labor, and stood beside her so she could hold his hoof for support. We grimaced together, on either side of her, as she squeezed. “Push!” I shouted.

“You don’t have to tell me when to push,” she said through gritted teeth, “He’s got it.” She pointed to the sky and then tapped her temple. I’m not the envious type, but it’s hard to feel like a man when you’re competing with telepathy, not to mention omnipotence. Plus, you know he’s packing.

It was all over after a few minutes. Out onto the semi-clean straw shot our perfect baby boy.

“Jesus,” Mary said. “Beautiful baby Jesus.”

“I thought we agreed on Benjamin,” I said. We had spent months trying baby names, and had finally agreed on Benjamin for a boy; Bryleen for a girl.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck the ground outside the shed. When my vision had finally returned, I saw ‘JESUS’ spelled in fire, burning the sand to glass.

“It’s Jesus,” Mary said.

“Jesus it is,” I said, having no choice. This whole thing was seeming pretty unfair. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but grin as I retrieved the baby basket I had been weaving for the past six months. My wife raised a finger. She and her baby daddy had decided otherwise: Mary placed our boy gently into a cattle trough.

“I can just hold him,” I offered.

“Nope. He belongs in the manger,” said Mary. “Wait. Why does it smell like old man?”

I was about to make a remark about her ageless lover when I noticed three elderly gentlemen leering at us from the doorway. I moved to stand in front of my wife and child. There would be none of that Bethlehem baby-snatching tonight. Not on my watch.

“Who are you? What do you want?” I said.

“We come bearing gifts,” said the man closest to me.

“That’s fine,” I said. “We’re all set on — wait, is that gold?”

He hid his hands behind his back. “We need it to, uh, get home,” he said.

“How’d you get here in the first place?”

One stepped forward proudly: “I followed the star!”

“Which one?”

He pointed up: “The big one!”

I examined him. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like he’d been smoking frankincense. “You creeps just watched my naked wife writhe on the floor.”

They receded into a corner and whispered frantically before returning and dropping the gold on the ground: “We offer this as a symbol.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I collected the gold and turned to show Mary. She was lying beside Jesus, caressing him with her eyes closed, and nodding her head as if in conversation. I could only imagine what that dirty celestial man was saying to her.

As I was preoccupied, the last of the strangers stepped forward and sprinkled orange rocks on baby Jesus.

“Hey! What are you doing?!” I shouted, standing and grabbing the man’s wrist. I quickly recoiled as I saw the crazed look in his eyes.

“Myr!” He screamed. “Myr for the holy child!” He started throwing the rocks at my wife, at which point a wind appeared and blew the man violently from the room. The other two followed hurriedly. I heard them arguing about whether you could follow a South Star home as they crept back into the darkness.

“Thank you for getting rid of that horrible man, Heavenly Father!” Mary crowed, looking to the sky. I may as well not even be here.

“You’re welcome,” A voice like thunder boomed, shaking the roof. “Darling.”

“So do you pay for his schooling, or how’s this going to work?” I asked. He ignored me and went back to communicating telepathically with my wife.

I sighed, plopped down beside her, and stroked the forehead of my step-son. I can’t be too upset. At least the kid’s got a good long life in front of him.