'Twas the night before Christmas, and I wasn't even in the house...
An obligatory holiday tale of divine visions and delirium tremens.
December 24, 1982. I am eleven years old, freezing cold, and the adoptive father of the newly born Christ child. I look over the plywood manger at my wife, Eileen. She is beautiful in her thin blue robe sewn from old bedsheets, gazing demurely down into the blank painted eyes of our shiny vinyl son, Jesus. Her breath fogs in the winter night air, and …
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