Once upon a time (okay, this is loosely based on events that happened this October; but since these stupid cards always start with “Once upon a time,” you’re just going to have to deal with it) there was a state called California. It was a beautiful and prosperous place with picturesque mountains, scenic shorelines, and real estate so highly coveted that you can’t even find a crackerbox two-bedroom condo for under two hundred grand.

Everyone who lived there hated the dump. Its economy was a mess, its infrastructure was behind the times, and thousands of people lived in the streets because of the incredibly high cost of condos. The citizens had enough, and wanted things to change immediately.

“It’s the governor’s fault!” screamed the voters, who usually spoke in a single voice because they lacked the brain wattage to come up with individual opinions. “We voted him in eleven months ago, and he hasn’t turned around the economy yet? We demand a recall election!”

"It's the governor's fault!," said the voters.

“But our problems have been developing for decades,” pointed out the Registrar of Voters, “the true correction of which will require painful sacrifices and increased taxes. Isn’t blaming a single guy for all our woes just a temporary easy fix?”

“We demand a recall election!” repeated the voters, who conveniently blocked the argument out.

“That’ll be seventy-five bucks for the permit,” yawned the Registrar as he stamped the request. And then, remembering that this idiotic card was supposed to have a theme that was remotely connected to the holidays, he scheduled the recall election for Christmas Eve.

As soon as the election was announced, every conceivable crackpot and has-been registered as independent candidate in order to grab a moment in the spotlight. Porn Stars, porn producers, and former porn child actors all lined up to have their names placed on the ballot.

“It’s an exercise in futility!” laughed the Republican Party leaders over a few thousand pills of OxyContin. “Those independent candidates will be knocked out of contention when our man announces his candidacy on The Tonight Show tomorrow night. The only thing that could ruin us if the people wake up to the idea that a German bodybuilder/actor/womanizer might not be the ideal person to run the fifth largest economy in the world, and instead take the radical turn of voting for a clown the Democrats put on the ballot who might actually have some experience in public office! To lock this up, we must hope that the Democrats run someone who is so stupid and offensive that the people would sooner rip their fingers out of the sockets and eat them rather than vote for him. But who could they possibly find who would be that revolting?”

At about this time, a young muse named Jonny M. was being fired from his job as a stunt cock on a Jenna Jameson video. The porn industry had suddenly closed down when all of the actors walked off the sets to take their place on the California ballot. Sadly, the noble muse opened the pages of Backstage West to find a new job, when his eyes were drawn to an ad reading “Earn good money while you practice your craft! Democratic candidate for the California Governorship wanted. Nudity and simulated anal sex required.”

Jonny opened the pages of Backstage West to find a new job.

Knowing that he possessed the anal skills but fearful that he lacked the political prowess, Jonny sauntered over to the California Democratic Headquarters for an interview. The line of applicants looked to be a mile long, so with a doubtful frown the muse got in line behind Gary Coleman to wait for his inevitable rejection.

The Democrats took the interviews seriously, not wanting another fiasco like the Jerry Brown era, so it was approaching midnight when Jonny was finally ushered into the party headquarters. The party leaders had just popped Coleman’s Diff’rent Strokes demo reel out of the VCR, and when they saw the hideous muse’s repellent visage walk through the door, they decided to keep their eyes glued on channel 4 to keep from throwing up. They didn’t even acknowledge Jonny as he placed his Jack Daniels-stained résumé on the desk, and instead became entranced by the steel-jawed figure of Jay Leno on the television set.

“You all know my next guest from such films as Hercules in New York, Junior and The Last Action Hero. Give a big hand for Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

Jonny had been oblivious to the Democrats’ repulsion at his entrance, and had been droning about his election to the post of Vomit Mopper at his local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous when he was suddenly silenced by an unfamiliar sound that greeted Schwarzenegger’s entrance.

“What is that peculiar noise?” asked Jonny in wonder. “It is a strange sound that is totally foreign to my ears.”

“It’s applause, you idiot,” hissed a Democratic leader as he hurled a donkey pie at the muse’s head. “Shut up, we’ve got to hear this!”

The room grew silent as the Terminator announced that he would be the Republican candidate for Governor of California.

The Terminator announced that he would be the Republican candidate for Governor of California.

“The economy is in a terrible shape,” said Schwarzenegger as Leno nodded in sycophantic agreement. “We must all tighten our belts if we are going to get out of our current fiscal crisis. And since holidays are a needless expense...”

The candidate paused for effect, breaking a candy cane in half to make his point.

“...my first act as Governor shall be to cancel Christmas!”

“What!” screamed Jonny. “I’m dismayed at the thought, although I must admit I’m pleased that we finally made a Yuletide connection to this stupid story. Does this man realize that Christmas has nothing to do with money? That we can celebrate the spirit of mankind on that most special of days without dipping into the state budget for the price of a mug of eggnog. Shame on him! I say shame!”

The muse was about to make his way out the door, hoping that the Democrats wouldn’t notice that his pockets were stuffed with complimentary office supplies, when he noticed that his interviewers seemed stunned by the passion of his words and were now sizing him up with an intensity that was usually given to him by the beefier inmates of one of his many overnight stays in the drunk tank.

“He would make a nice contrast to Schwarzenegger,” murmured one of the party chieftains. “Arnold is a bodybuilder, and he’s a pencil-neck geek. Arnold is a millionaire, and he’s got fifteen cents in his shoe. Arnold is an actor, and whatever the hell he did in A Cat Among Pigeons was as far from acting as you can get.”

“Do you think you can give that same stupid Bob Cratchit speech you just gave in front of a roomful of voters?” asked one of the Democrats, finally addressing Jonny directly.

“Of course,” replied the muse. “Haven’t you read any of the previous editions of this stupid card? I’ve given that exact same speech at the climax of every story for the past thirteen years.”

“Well, since Martin Sheen is unavailable to run because he’s tied to a tree in Colorado, we might as well stake our hopes on a pathetic loser,” shrugged the Party hack. “And even a disgusting drunk like this has a better shot at getting elected than Cruz Bustamante. Congratulations, you’re the Democratic candidate for Governor of California.”

Jonny found that he enjoyed campaigning, although he couldn’t kiss any babies because of the restraining order that forced him to keep at least fifty feet away from them. And after the voters’ initial repulsion to the muse’s disgusting appearance and horrid breath, they found themselves warming up to Jonny’s message of universal love at Christmas time that we could carry with us all the days of the year.

Jonny found that he enjoyed campaigning.

“A vote for Jonny is a vote for Christmas!” became the campaign slogan as the noble muse slowly crawled his way up in the opinion polls. The voters had mixed feelings: Jonny was running a one-note campaign that would only carry any impact for the month of December, whereas Arnold was a political neophyte who refused to even discuss his platform in anything but the most simpleminded terms. The inanity of both candidates appealed enormously to the voters, and as the Christmas Eve election drew near, it became obvious that a debate would be the only solution.

“A debate will be perfect!” laughed the Republican leaders. “Our man is a photogenic movie star, whereas they use Jonny’s driver’s license photo to induce vomiting in hospitals! We can’t lose!”

“A debate will be perfect!” laughed the Republican leaders.

“But haven’t you listened to Jonny’s message of Yuletide joy?” piped in a nervous party hack. “If voters can get beyond superficialities and actually listen to the candidates’ message, the Democrats might pull ahead.”

“That’s never happened in the history of American politics,” sneered the leaders. “But just in case, let’s be sure to stack the cards in our favor…”

The debate was scheduled for December 15, which coincidentally was also Jonny’s birthday. The muse rolled out of bed to find the usual tributes of alcohol at his door (which we want to remind the reader are an excellent way to say “thank you” for the annual pain in the backside of putting these stupid cards together), including an unusually large and inviting bottle that was labeled “Happy Birthday from The Party.” Jonny greedily gathered up his booty and disappeared into his hovel for a minor bender before taking off for his match-up with Arnold.

The Republican candidate had prepared for the debate by bench-pressing two thousand pounds, having the new valve in his heart cleaned out and getting James Cameron to write him a stack of pre-scripted witty retorts. There seemed to be no way he could lose. The press waited for Jonny to arrive, but when 4:00 turned to 5:00 and then 6:00 without the muse’s entrance, it looked as though Arnold would win by default. The Republican leaders winked at each other smugly, secure in the knowledge that the huge bottle of cheap whiskey that they had sent to the muse was laced with a potent concoction of Sleep-Ease and tryptophan that would knock Jonny out for days.

“If that fails,” laughed a party leader, “we also sent him a videotape of The Matrix Reloaded. He won’t wake up until Arbor Day!”

But just as the Republicans were finished congratulating themselves, the drunken figure of Jonny M. staggered in. He looked bad, although better than Richard Nixon did when he debated John F. Kennedy. The debate went on with each participant sticking to his game plan: Arnold speaking in the vaguest of generalities with only the occasional wry Terminator references to break the monotony, and Jonny M. reminding everyone of the glory of Christmas.

When the debate was over, the Republican elders surrounded the noble muse to try and find out why their lethal potion hadn’t floored him.

“Oh, did you guys send me that bottle?” slurred Jonny appreciatively. “Thanks! It didn’t have quite the kick of the stuff I make myself out of grain alcohol and the juice I wring out of used sweat socks, but it did the job.”

The Republicans realized that they were up against an opponent with a cast-iron liver, but after the debate they had an even bigger problem. Voters were so impressed by Jonny’s arguments in favor of maintaining Christmas at all costs that he was running neck-and-neck with Arnold.

The Democrats were delighted with the polls.

“Every time the Republicans run an actor, they kick our ass,” bemoaned one Democrat official. “Ronald Reagan, Clint Eastwood and Gopher from The Love Boat were all actors who became politicians. All we have are loudmouths like Tim Robbins and Barbra Streisand who love to tell everyone how things should be run, but will never step up to the plate and do anything about it. This Jonny guy may finally be the answer we’ve been looking for. If only we could do something about his smell!”

"Why can't any of our actors run for office?" asked the Democrats.

As the Christmas Eve election approached, no one could guess if the victor would be the bronzed god from Austria or the scrawny geek from Northridge. Arnold’s campaign ads in the final days focused on the necessities of canceling the holiday so that the state could keep within its budget (a tactic that most political analysts considered very unusual, but was necessary to keep the very tenuous Yuletide connection of this stupid story). The commercials made Jonny ponder a Christmas without state-financed trees, or tinsel, or colorful holiday decorations lining the street; and as the grim image seemed more and more of a reality, the noble muse decided that it didn’t matter. And as the votes began tallying up and it became apparent that the muse would continue his life-long losing streak, he tried to console his hard-working followers.

“The Christmas Spirit will live on as long as each of us carries it inside us,” said Jonny in his concession speech. “The state may not be putting up our beloved styrofoam Santa Clauses, but they can’t tear down the Santa inside us. I don’t care if you celebrate Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, or are still observing my birthday on December 15 in which gifts of alcohol are still being gratefully accepted; this is a special time of year to all people for a reason! And that reason is to remind us of the spirit of love and brotherhood that stays with us all year long. The Republicans may have us on the run on abortion, but this is something that they can never take away from us!”

The crowd broke into tears at the profundity of Jonny’s sage-like wisdom, but rising above them all was a strangely Teutonic wailing that sounded all too familiar. The crowd parted to discover the celebrated figure of Governor-elect Arnold ascending the stage.

The Governor-elect Arnold ascended the stage.

“I came here to blow all of you away with a submachine gun,” sniffled the superstar as he grabbed the microphone, knocking Jonny into a pool of vomit that had been supplied by an anonymous aid only moments before. “Growing up in Austria with my Nazi father, I never appreciated the meaning of Christmas -not to mention Hanukah - until now. I mean, who can get worked up over something called a ‘tannenbaum’; you know what I’m saying? But after listening to Jonny’s message of peace and love, I now realize that the tradition of Christmas is something that the government needs to protect. And it will be a priority of my office to pump so many government subsidies into the holiday that we’ll be bankrupt by January!”

So all was happiness in California. Governor Arnold served out his term, and proved to be the biggest embarrassment to a state since Jesse Ventura. The Republicans and Democrats overcame their differences after discovering that they were both secret lovechildren of Wilt Chamberlain. And the state of California solved their natural resource dilemma by discovering a new energy source made from the horseshit cranked out by Hollywood studios.

But happiest of all was Jonny M. As he looked around at the harmony enjoyed by his new friends at realizing that Christmas was more than just some tinsel thrown up on Main Street, his heart surged at knowing that he had contributed to their discovery. And with a wink of his eye to his constituents, he jauntily left the hall and was immediately picked up by IRS agents, who threw him in prison for three years for not paying state income taxes since 1994.

And Happy Holidays to you, dear friend. Whatever holiday you celebrate, be it Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, or the always-popular Jonny’s Birthday on December 15 in which I cannot overstate the appropriateness of gifts of alcohol; remember that this is the time of year to look around and take stock of the things that make you happiest in life, and to acknowledge them for the joy that you receive from them each and every day of the year. And to remember that you always have a loving friend in Jonny M.

Advance to the next Jonny Christmas story

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