When I think of Christmases of lore, I think of sugarplums dancing, reindeer laughing, wise men passing, and a barn full of farm animals made sweeter by the very first Christmas gift of all, not frankincense or myrrh, but the blessed diaper of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Indeed, thank those wise men for their gifts. I can’t see cinnamon and nutmeg, or even a can of pine tree-scented bathroom deodorant, doing the trick on the world’s first Christmas morning. This Kid’s Dad is omnipotent. Do you really think you’re capable of producing a worse smelling load?

Gifts, then, and life, are most representative of Christmas. And a Christmas story that includes both would likely be the Christmasiest Christmas story of them all. Which is why I enjoyed this story so much…

A woman from Queens, New York, was attacked by a gang of men, as many as eight, outside a stop on the F train. But this Christmas Eve, she gave herself the gift of life. She stabbed one of the motherfuckers.

You know the ghost of Christmas Past? Yeah, well that’s him. He didn’t get the gift of life this Christmas. No, instead he got multiple stab wounds to the chest and an express trip to meet the Birthday Boy in person.

And I think that would be an appropriate Hell for dying of defensive wounds during an attack on Christmas Eve: getting stuck in barn with Baby Jesus for all of Eternity. The crying, the shitting, and a nice, occasional view of the heavenly cleavage of a Hot Piece of Ass whose main claim to fame is that she doesn’t put out for anyone. Not even God.

If this isn’t the spirit of Christmas, I don’t know what is.