"It's warm down here," you murmur into her muff as you stroke the green and white reindeer on the red sweater she's still wearing, her mother's knitting, which is barely equal to the monumental task of not breaking apart against the heaving enormity of her breasts. "And I have a lot to be thankful for this Christmas."

You pull your hands down to grip her perfect thighs as you prepare for another dive, and she tightens and moans already in anticipation. She'll be up for another hour after you finally weary putting out cookies and milk. She'll do this all your life, you know, bearing as many children as you want but retaining that figure and whimsy all the while. She opens her mouth as your tongue enters her, but all you hear is "Joy to the world! Our Lord has come." And indeed she is coming.

Wha! You wake up in a cold sweat. Your size twenty girlfriend is watching Christmas cartoons. "I can't believe they're still allowed to show propaganda for the most oppressive religion in history," she says as she sees you jolt upright. "There was a piece on HuffPo about it." She is licking the bottom of a Yoplait cup and eyes you suggestively, then shakes her head, remembering. "I'm supposed to be mad at you about something, aren't I?" "Happy holidays," you say, pulling the covers around yourself so tight they might suffocate you.

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