A Realistic Account Of The First Christmas
The Bible tells it differently.
By Michael Kellman & Alec Winshel
I’ll admit that I’m not the perfect husband. I don’t like doing chores. I sleep late some mornings. I get jealous when my wife cheats on me with deities. But, my-wife’s-lover-dammit, I try my best to be a good husband and father. When it finally came time to deliver our sweet boy, I pulled out all the stops.
My wife was in tremendous pain. Her breath came in laboring gasps as I brought her to the back shed. The fresh air would be better for Mary than the musty air in our hut. All the parenting books say so. I put down as much straw as I could find, fighting our ass, Samuel, for his share. Samuel, my-wife’s-lover-bless-him, eventually seemed to understand that Mary was in labor, and stood beside her so she could hold his hoof for support. We grimaced together, on either side of her, as she squeezed. “Push!” I shouted.
“You don’t have to tell me when to push,” she said through gritted teeth, “He’s got it.” She pointed to the sky and then tapped her temple. I’m not the envious type, but it’s hard to feel like a man when you’re competing with telepathy, not to mention omnipotence. Plus, you know he’s packing.
It was all over after a few minutes. Out onto the semi-clean straw shot our…
