DISCLAIMER: As I could not be bothered to look up the actual details of this story or verify its validity because all of my strength and will had been previously wasted on a last minute, 10 pm trip to Wal-Mart, do not take the following as anything more than jaded cynicism in a crunchy coating of sarcastic humor (much like all the other things that spew forth from this swirly of disaster I call Brain):
A woman somewhere (could have been Here, could have been There, maybe even 13 miles outside of Elsewhere down Interstate WhoGivesaCrap) awoke or just finally wandered out into the light of day to find her front lawn strewn with up to 10's of small, rosy-cheeked plastic babies. Astounded by the notion of a possible (though improbable) Christmas miracle of raining Baby Jesi, she ran about in cartoonish circles the late, great Barbera would have wept at the sight of before calling her local priest and confessing the sin of hosing off the sons of god.
Apparently some pious devotees devoid of reason and the knowledge of the social ramifications of stealing the plastic offspring of others was incensed at the idea of Baby J making an appearance before his mythical anointed arrival date.
The found Jesi were rounded up by local parishioners with the help of snickering law enforcement, checked for signs of abuse or neglect, questioned as to whether they’d ever been touched inappropriately by an angel and returned to their grieving owners who more than likely plopped them back in their little mangers and scurried back into the throng of the pushing, shoving, anti-peace-on-earth-good-will-to-[people] (must keep up with the PC-ie-ness after all) hordes of mall-goers and last minute shoppers elbowing one another in the names of Christ and Good Savings.
So if Baby Jesi aren’t supposed to be left to freeze in badly lit, apparently dog-approved nativity scenes until Christmas, I suggest we follow this rule of dumb to guarantee that crimes of this inconsequence do not persist. I even recommend we go all out to ensure serial doll-snatching is left to the professionals, the little brothers and school yard bullies who have made such an art of it.
I think I’ll start with a very pregnant Mary complete with stretch marks, hemorrhoids and turkey-timer bellybutton. Maybe I’ll even throw in a skeptical Joseph and a disillusioned goat. According to the story there were others there as well, regular people looking for a warm place to stay. How ‘bout a hobo, a wino (there's a distinction) and a shady lady with her veil askew? If we’re going to be sticking to anachronistic history I’ll have the magi show up about a week late with stale frankincense, leftover myrrh and colicky camels, and a week after that I’ll introduce Herod and the souls of hundreds of murdered children…
And after I wake up from my pious-pummeling-induced coma, I’ll start planning a 1:10 scale reenactment of the beautiful, heart-wrenching story of how an industrious wittle rabbit called forth the armies of hell and regained control over Easter.
