In lieu of doing work with a Christmas stupor (or Maj turning away from his Chinese takeout) we present our fairly well received Christmas post from last year (Good to enough to make it a tradition that allows us to be lazy? I think so). As those who were in attendance know, this is also the post I read at the Varsity Letters reading back in May. Those old ladies there to see that guy who wrote a book about his dad sure loved all the excessive swearing and blasphemy.

Everybody knows Christmas is just some date that was assigned as Jesus’ birthday by Pope Bellicose V to coincide with some pagan winter solstice sodomyfest. But December 24 carries actual significance in the Christian calendar, for it was the day Jesus took a knee for our sins and created the most holy game of football.

Before the advent of the sport, bands of pagans amused themselves by catching fatal diseases, trying soccer and getting bored or playing Scrabulous on Facebook. People were getting restless with this “Son of God” business, saying that if he really was something special, he’d find a way to win in the playoffs after finishing the regular season with 13 wins every fucking year.

In his 20th year, joined by his 12 Apostles, Joe Gibbs, Jon Kitna, Tony Dungy, Mark Brunell, Kurt Warner, Deion Sanders, Adrian Peterson, Mike Singletary, Jason Elam, Tom Landry, Reggie White and Mike Huckabee, Christ did create the continent of North America so that the 13 of them could convene at a field house in Canton, Ohio.

“Behold, my brothers,” Jesus did say. “I give you football.”

He held aloft the oddly shaped object fashioned of cowhide leather but referred to as a pigskin. The Apostles wept as they regarded it. Tom Landry didn’t take off his hat, though, because he was a disrespectful asswipe.

“With this ball, shall ye line up 11 on 11 and attempt to take the ball to the opponent’s end of the Earth.”

The Earth back then was only 100 yards long.

“All that I ask of you is that you thank me for each win and each touchdown and not fault me for losses, fumbles or drive killing phantom holding calls.”

The Apostles agreed to do so.

“However, Man is not yet ready to accept this divine gift. Therefore I will create a race of lesser men to keep the grass of this continent in good shape – well, except Pittsburgh – until a football playing race of men is able to slaughter them and establish a multi-billion dollar league dedicated to bringing it to the masses at exorbitant prices. The Washington franchise will be given a name insulting to this breed of lesser man.”

“One more thing: you should slap each other’s asses while you play it,” Jesus said.

“Really? Slap each other’s asses? What are you, Jesus, gay?” asked Jon Kitna.

“Actually, yes. Yes, I am,” replied Jesus as he tongue kissed Esera Tuaolo.

As anyone who’s read so much as a poorly constructed paragraph on this site is aware, we like to lard our writing with innumerable Simpsons quotes. It’s that thing that we say.

With a cast of characters numbering somewhere in the tens of millions, there’s someone in The Simpsons universe that anyone can identify with, like Col. Leslie Hap Hapablap for Ufford, Data for Ape (”Oh look, a clue! Candy bar wrapper!”) and Ralph for Maj.

But which would you actually want to hang around with? Duffman might be fun, for say, five minutes, but the constant “DUFFMAN! NEEDS TO FILE ESTIMATED TAXES BEFORE THE 16TH! OH YEAH!” could wear thin.

My inaugural pick: Moe Szyslak.

He’s the only person I know who has a worse opinion of himself than I do, he’s a complete degenerate (”I had a lot of fun being you, Dr. Hibbert. One thing: You’re not welcome in the library no more.”), he won’t upstage me with the ladies and, oh, he has access to unlimited booze. Thanks, pally.

Since we’re dealing with a somewhat finite population here, you have to wait at least five picks before making another.

I appreciate you ladies showing up for me here today. It’s a gesture that bespeaks your great concern for your fellow man.

The signed football was a great thrill. I mean it. I’ll treasure it for my remaining days. That cheer you did for me? Moving stuff. Kinda catchy, too.

But it’s not exactly what I had in mind.

You see, when my parents put in the call to the Cowboys’ public relations department, they told team representatives that it would be my dying wish to get to meet the Dallas Cowboys’ cheerleading squad. Can’t quite say that was inaccurate, but they left out a few small but significant details.

Nurse, would you give us a minute?

Now, over in the chair in the corner you will find a riding crop and a couple bottles of high-end lotion. I don’t think I need to explain what comes next.

Hey! Where are you going? No! Wait! Stop! Hey!

John Challis got to meet Ben Roethlisberger and Mario Lemieux and they had sex with him! It’s not like I have AIDS. I have cancer. That’s the new, hip terminal disease! Didn’t you see that South Park?!

I’m so close to the end and I just want to get laid one last time.

I have sex toys!

Before the advent of the sport, bands of pagans amused themselves by catching fatal diseases, trying soccer and getting bored or playing Scrabulous on Facebook. People were getting restless with this “Son of God” business, saying that if he really was something special, he’d find a way to win in the playoffs after finishing the regular season with 13 wins every fucking year.

In his 20th year, joined by his 12 Apostles, Joe Gibbs, Jon Kitna, Tony Dungy, Mark Brunell, Kurt Warner, Deion Sanders, Adrian Peterson, Mike Singletary, Jason Elam, Tom Landry, Reggie White and Mike Huckabee, Christ did create the continent of North America so that the 13 of them could convene at a field house in Canton, Ohio.

“Behold, my brothers,” Jesus did say. “I give you football.”

He held aloft the oddly shaped object fashioned of cowhide leather but referred to as a pigskin. The Apostles wept as they regarded it. Tom Landry didn’t take off his hat, though, because he was a disrespectful asswipe.

“With this ball, shall ye line up 11 on 11 and attempt to take the ball to the opponent’s end of the Earth.”

The Earth back then was only 100 yards long.

“All that I ask of you is that you thank me for each win and each touchdown and not fault me for losses, fumbles or drive killing phantom holding calls.”

The Apostles agreed to do so.

“However, Man is not yet ready to accept this divine gift. Therefore I will create a race of lesser men to keep the grass of this continent in good shape – well, except Pittsburgh – until a football playing race of men is able to slaughter them and establish a multi-billion dollar league dedicated to bringing it to the masses at exorbitant prices. The Washington franchise will be given a name insulting to this breed of lesser man.”

“One more thing: you should slap each other’s asses while you play it,” Jesus said.

“Really? Slap each other’s asses? What are you, Jesus, gay?” asked Jon Kitna.

“Actually, yes. Yes, I am,” replied Jesus as he tongue kissed Esera Tuaolo.

Upon reaching a certain threshold of fame, however, and the normal rules cease to apply. As is increasingly the case, one must put together a menu of faux pax and fuck-uppery to jeopardize one’s career. Singular incidents often just won’t do.

Killed someone? Not even a fellow celebrity? That’s too fucking pedestrian. Ray Lewis kills at least three people before lunch EVERY DAY, including July 4th and Satan’s birthday. Fucked some kids? I’m pretty sure I saw Michael Jackson performing on some network special the other week. Hate the Jews? Well, yes, I thought Apocalypto was a decent flick.

Not so simple, huh?

Even more recent examples, such as Pacman Jones and Michael Vick – aka “Ron Mexico,” aka “Ookie,” aka “Lionel Hutz,” aka “Miguel Sanchez” – had to assemble a slate of improprieties. Vick prefaced the fallout of Bad Newz Kennels with an offseason of stoner high jinx. But where his true genius lie was messing with animals. People care about adorable little critters more than their fellow man. Know why we’re still in Iraq? Easy. No cute animals there – camels are fucking ugly. China poses an economic threat to us but, hey, they got pandas.

The rules. You’re an A-list celebrity at the peak of your career. Pick a deed or statement that could deep-six your fame quicksville. And by that, I don’t mean something that will bump you down a peg in stardom or dog you for a few years. I mean “you will never work in this or any town again” type of shit. You must wait 10 picks to make another pick. There is some room for overlap. If you take away all the major heinous crimes in the first five picks, there isn’t much left to work with. Serial jaywalking probably wouldn’t hurt your career too badly. Having said that, try to be creative about it.

My pick is shooting the President of the United States.

A quick disclaimer so I don’t get sent to Gitmo: I HAVE NO PLANS TO ACTUALLY DO THIS. Besides, I can’t shoot anyone due to the crippling arthritis in my index fingers from Space Invaders in 1977.

Neither should this be taken as a political statement on my part. I’d like to shot most politicians regardless of ideology. Rather, I figure it’s the surest, fastest way to ruin your public image. I don’t remember Charles Guiteau going platinum after he killed President Garfield.