The white reindeer twinkles wire mesh fiasco with a motorized head that pivots with the doggedness of a crack addict under the binge fluorescent lighting. The Box Store has us, caught between cardboard bins piled with plush penguins in Santa hats. I knock the goddamn reindeer out of your hands and try to dissuade you with stories of cats gobbling fallen tinsel and shitting glittery death pellets into people's coffee, or worse. "Bowel obstructions," I shout and wave my arms while you paw at garlands. No dice. There is no War on Christmas, this year, because Christmas has already beaten us—a shambling nightmare Christmas drawn like a death masque across the failing, diabetic economy. Christmas this year looks like it's been shot in the head but it's still coming. "We'll do stockings, you bastard," I say. "That will be my one allowance for this atrocity!"