To all my Jonny Pals,

What a year it's been! Our country has been in a nightmare of chaos led by a wannabe dicator who was put into office on a loophole four years ago and he decided to finish up his mercifully brief reign by incompetently mismanaging the biggest health crisis of the last hundred years, putting everyone's lifestyle into Fucktown. I can't even remember the last time that happened!

But Fucktown or not, it's still the Yuletide and that means it's time for the 31st annual Jonny Chrsitmas Extravaganza. For those of you new to this silliness, it's my annual story in which the noble muse Jonny M. and his pug Boris save Christmas, this time by trying to celebrate it in the safety of the Social Network where their friends are forced to spend most of their time because of the pandemic.

As always, putting together this thing has been the highlight of my year and I hope that it offers an amusing kickoff to your holiday season. There's no getting around that this is going to be one of the weirdest Yuletides we've ever gone through but I hope we can all follow Jonny and Boris' example and remember that no matter what challenges we face, the joyous spirit of this special time of year is as strong as ever and I hope that you celebrate it in a fashion that will find you safe and well in 2021. The best is yet to come.

Happy Holidays.


This story is dedicated to everyone who has become as depressed by the nightmare of 2020 as Boris and I have.

Hover your cursor over underlined textYeah, like that. for an explanation of its meaning.

Once upon a time, there was a great and mighty land called the United States of America. It prided itself on being the model of democracy where anyone who was tired, poor, or a huddled mass yearning to breathe free could join its melting pot society and benefit from and contribute to the groundbreaking egalitarian government created by its founding fathers, until it was looked upon throughout the globe as the greatest country in the world.

Everyone who lived there hated the dump. Because for the last four years its citizens had inexplicably awarded its leadership to a greedy, unprincipled millionaire named Donald Trump (you heard me; I said "millionaire" with an M) who had managed to single-handedly reduce the USA’s once-titan reputation around the planet to a bitter joke. And when Trump single-handedly mismanaged the global pandemic of Covid-19 so badly that America became the virus’ most ravaged target, its smartest inhabitants were forced to hide inside their homes, venturing out to interact with their infected neighbors only while wearing a face mask that provided some protection from the deadly disease until the only human contact anyone could safely have was on social media.

And the Social Network was on fire to express their disdain for Trump.

"The man is a menace!" said legendary Twitter pundit @LMplusG. "He has dug our country into a hole so deep that NO president will ever be able to pull us out! The United States as we once knew it has ceased to exist."

But amazingly, even after the catastrophic job that Trump did over the past four years, he still had a vast number of followers who loved him for hating the same people that they did. "Mr. Trump was making America great again," countered @TrumpIzGrate. "The only thing that kept him from achieving his goal was libtards from the Deep State like you!"

"You’re an idiot!" fired back @HillaryClinton. "The only reason Trump won the election was because of all the morons who couldn’t be bothered to vote! I’d like to find one of them just so I could punch them in the face. I mean, who could possibly be that stupid?"

At about this time, a young muse named Jonny M. was returning with his pug Boris from a quick trip to the supermarket to buy staples of their diet like Alpo and Milk Bones, plus a few things for Boris. The political statements made on the Social Network were over Jonny’s head and when it had come time to cast his vote in the 2016 presidential contest, he misunderstood the entire point of the ballot and wrote in pink M&Ms. But even a numskull as big as the muse couldn’t miss the effects of Trump’s disastrous handling of the pandemic. As he and Boris passed their favorite diner, now shut down and only offering roadside delivery, they remembered all the good times they shared with their many friends who would meet them for brunch, where everyone would break into fits of hysterical laughter at Jonny’s delightful supply of dick jokes. Those days had long been erased due to the pandemic, and the only contact Jonny and Boris had with their pals was on Facebook where Jonny would post hilarious pictures with members of his crew Photoshopped into them. The illustrations had developed such a massive following that they frequently got as many as half a dozen "likes" before Jonny would get a notification from Facebook to remove them or have his account suspended for thirty days.

Jonny remembered meeting their friends for brunch, where everyone would break into fits of hysterical laughter at his dick jokes

When the pair got back to their massive Casa de Jonny estate, abandoned by the help when it became a breeding ground for Covid-19 microbes, they took their groceries into Boris’ sixteen-room doghouse (the only place on the grounds where no one had contracted the virus) and Jonny sat at his computer so that he could post another of his delightful illustrations online. But just as the muse was about to push the "post" button, he broke down in tears.

"This is not how people were meant to live!" he screamed as Boris nodded sadly in agreement, nursing a snifter of Napoleon Brandy. "Do you realize that we haven’t seen any of our beloved pals in the flesh since April? Our only contact with them has been through electronic gizmos like Zoom, Face Time, Facebook and Instagram! That’s okay for you and me because being around a lot of those people gets on my nerves, but can you imagine how devastating it’s been for them not to be near us? And Christmas is coming up. We can’t celebrate the Yuletide by reaching out to each other through the ice cold chasm of the Social Network. Someone has got to find a way to defeat this pandemic so that humanity can observe our most sacred holiday face to face and heart to heart. And there’s only one man who is capable of performing such a miracle!"

Boris threw up in his mouth a little as he anticipated his master’s next words.

"Tomorrow," said Jonny sagely, "we’re going to pay a visit on Professor Morlock!!!"


Professor Morlock is well-known to longtime readers of these stupid stories as the mysterious occultist who launched Jonny and Boris into heaven for Jonny’s Afterlife Christmas and propelled them into the past for Jonny’s Time Travel Christmas.. If anyone could deliver a normal Christmas in the midst of this pandemic, it was him. But when they entered his strange shop, the pair were confronted by a forbidding sign which read "No entry without a face mask." Since Boris was no idiot, he always wore a face mask outside the house so there was no problem (Jonny was an idiot but the pug always looked out for his welfare and made sure that he was wearing one too), so the pair entered the premises. But as soon as the door was closed behind them, they beheld a stern figure wearing a physician’s smock and operating mask and pointing a revolver at them.

"State your business and then get out," snapped an unusually deep voice from behind the mask. "And keep your distance. You don’t need to be any closer than six feet to buy an enchanted monkey paw."

Boris was about to use his legendary ninja skills to slap the gun out of the bully’s hand and then dropkick his nut sack into his rib cage when Jonny thrust his arms apart and excitedly shouted "Professor Morlock!!!"

That was all the masked man needed to hear. He gingerly put down the revolver, collapsed into a nearby medieval torture chair and resignedly muttered "In the name of all that’s holy... it’s you two."

"That’s right," chimed Jonny while hastily pulling down his mask so that the professor could see his face before immediately pulling it on again. "It’s Jonny and Boris!" Jonny paused with the expectation that Morlock would register excitement at the news but when the professor only lowered his head and moaned in pain, the muse continued. "Christmas is coming up soon and with this pandemic making it impossible for anyone to actually see each other in the flesh, we wanted to see if there was any way that you could put a stop to this Covid-19 virus in time for everyone to celebrate a normal Yuletide and not just wish each other a pathetic cyber-'Merry Christmas' on Facebook."

Jonny pulled down his mask so that the professor could see his face.

The professor's massive jaw dropped even more heavily into his chest.

"You think that I haven’t tried that?" grumbled Morlock sadly. "Covid-19 is a worldwide health crisis that will require the participation of every medical organization in the world as well as strong leadership which has been sorely lacking in the United States. Sure, I can conjure up a few voodoo tricks that will let you visit heaven for a few hours or go back in time thirty years; but what you’re asking for is actual science that requires the cooperation of the entire scientific world. It’s more than any one man can do."

Jonny was defeated. Without Morlock, he couldn’t hope to sidestep the deadly virus for Christmas. He and Boris trudged sadly to the exit and Jonny’s hand was about to turn the knob when Morlock’s singular basso profundo voice stopped them in their tracks.


Jonny and Boris turned hopefully back to the professor.

"You said that you didn’t want to wish anyone a cyber Merry Christmas over Facebook. It might just be possible for me to actually send you inside Facebook for Christmas so that you could interact with your friends’ profiles physically."

Boris rolled his eyes at the stupidity of the suggestion but Jonny was palpably excited. "Could you actually do that? We could join our friends in a virus-free physical realm for Christmas Day?"

"It would be dangerous," replied Morlock earnestly, "but possible. I could deliver you into the Facebook universe on Christmas morning and you could spend the day celebrating with your friends" profiles, free from the dangers of Covid-19. But you would need to exit Facebook no later than midnight or be consumed by the application and never return to our physical world."

Jonny was dumbfounded. He wanted more than anything to get around the scourge of the virus and celebrate Christmas with his friends, but he had forgotten that Morlock’s plots always had a deadly catch. As much as he loved and cherished the Yuletide, he didn’t know if it was worth it. His eyes glazed over weighing the odious risks of the expedition when the silence was broken by Boris making a rare public utterance.

"When do we get started?" asked the pug.


As with all of Morlock’s schemes, not right away. The professor sent our heroes into the night while he set about to make the complex mathematical equations that would propel them into the physical bosom of their many friends in the safety of the Covid-free Social Network. With the virus floating dangerously around them, Jonny and Boris had nowhere to go but back home. Boris occupied himself during the lonely hours by doing his best to translate his master’s late pug Winston’s voluminous philosophical writings from Pugspeak into English (no small task since Pugspeak is one of the most complex languages imaginable, with over 5,000 characters in the sophisticated Pug alphabet and more than 2,000 words for "poop" alone) while Jonny filled his hours by watching his gorgeous hair grow (because he didn’t need some recent graduate of the LA Vocational Institute Cosmotologu Department infecting him with Covid while he was getting a trim) and by making crude illustrations in Photoshop in which he depicted his friends in vaguely erotic scenarios and posting them on Facebook and Instagram.

Boris passed the hours by reading the philosophical writings of Winston the pug, while Jonny made erotic illustrations on Photoshop.

The muse’s favorite subject for these pictures was his friend Rosanna De Candia, a compassionate deep-thinker whose primary objective in life was to inspire everyone she encountered into formulating the most positive self-image that they could conjure for themselves. Jonny’s reaction to this unique and giving soul was to Photoshop Rosie’s head onto pictures of the hottest bodies he could find on Google Images and represent her standing adoringly beside some heroic depiction of himself. The muse had focused his perverse attention on numerous hot women within his narrow online universe before, and they had all responded in horror by having their lawyers issue restraining orders at his revolting, pudgy ass. But Rosie’s unusually deep understanding of human nature had forged a compassion toward Jonny’s pathetically childish and perverse Photoshop renderings, so while all his other Facebook friends responded to his pictures with shocked comments that he had too much time on his hands and desperately needed a girlfriend, Rosie simply acknowledged her appreciation of his depraved images with a few words of kind encouragement and appreciation and a vectorized heart icon.

That was more than enough for Jonny, who was unused to anyone (especially a hot babe like Rosie) treating him any better than dirt. He spent every waking moment cranking out his Photoshopped trash and wading through the vast ocean of left wing political posts of his Facebook newsfeed in order to post his latest tawdry image. Then he would wait breathlessly for Rosie to post another heart before he would get to work on his next picture.

Not that anyone noticed because as September turned into October and then into November, the only thing Jonny’s pinko Facebook friends were interested in talking about was their obsession with getting Joe Biden into the White House. Even after Biden won the election in a landslide (using Trump's own barometer, since he claimed that winning with 306 electoral votes was "historic" four years earlier and son of a bitch if Biden didn't win by exactly that same margin this year), scarcely anyone noticed when Jonny logged onto the Social Media to post his pitiful pictures because all of his Facebook friends were only interested in using the platform as a soapbox to spout political posts. When Jonny’s birthday came on December 15th and he tried to use it for a fundraiser for his favorite charity The Foundation to Cure Erectile Disfunction in Middle-Aged White Men, only an anonymous donation from Boris let him reach his goal.

With all the fuss over the election, there wasn’t a peep on the Social Network about Christmas. But Jonny didn’t care. Even though it was obvious that he and Boris weren’t going to be able to see any of their friends on the Yuletide, the muse still went through the motions of decorating the elaborate doghouse to look like the Macy’s toy department of happier days. The pug had all but forgotten their visit to Professor Morlock those months ago (fixated as he was in studying the complex philosophy laid down in Winston’s weighty tomes), but Jonny still clung to the slender hope that the mysterious professor wouldn’t let them down. And sure enough, as he was staring sadly at his Facebook newsfeed on Christmas Eve only to be confronted by an endless stream of statuses about what an asshole Donald Trump is, the cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Jonny knew who it was without even looking at the screen.

"Be at my laboratory at fifteen minutes to midnight," said Professor Morlock tersely. "And bring your iPad."


Boris and Jonny screeched the Jonnymobile onto the curb in front of the little shop at the appointed hour and found the front door was propped open for them with one of Morlock’s shrunken heads. They warily tiptoed into the professor’s inner sanctum and were surprised not to see some elaborate mechanism that would propel them into another dimension like in previous stories, but only Morlock sitting by himself in an easy chair with a laptop computer cradled in his lap, playing Doctor Who Trivial Pursuit via Zoom with his friend Bob Mitsch.

"Mitsch is an nitwit," said Morlock before Jonny and Boris could even say hello. "He thought Cyber-Planner was introduced in the episode The Wheel in Time whereas it was actually The Wheel in Space. I shall take infinite pleasure in crushing him tonight."

"Uh, that’s great," said Jonny, whose own knowledge of the series was limited to occasionally looking at pictures of the Doctor’s female companions Photoshopped into erotic scenarios on the @celebrityfakes Instagram feed. "So, where’s the machine that’s going to take us into the Facebook universe so we can spend Christmas with our friends?"

"Did you bring your iPad?" asked Morlock, not looking up from his screen.

"Here it is," replied the muse as Boris took the tablet out of his backpack and handed it to Jonny.

"Open the Facebook app," said the professor, "then open Settings>Edit Profile... Damn it, Mitsch! Sylvester McCoy was the seventh Doctor, not Colin Baker!!! Get your head in the game!!! Sorry, where were we?"

"Um, Settings>Edit Profile."

"That’s right!" thundered back Morlock’s manly voice. "Tell me what you see."

"Languages>English," read Jonny nervously, "Languages>Talk Like a Pirate, Languages>Talk Like Donald Trump..."

"That just makes everything in your Facebook interface ramble incoherently without saying anything," snapped Morlock. "Skim down!"

"Extras>Give Mark Zuckerberg Every Personal Detail About You in the Known Universe."


"Extras>Enter the Facebook Universe at Your Own Peril."

"That’s it!" yelled Morlock while never taking his eyes off his Zoom screen. "Click ‘on’ and ‘save’ but ... what the hell is Mitsch thinking? ... first, you must be aware that you can only spend 24 hours in the Facebook universe and still be able to return. So to do that, you must..."

Morlock finally looked up from his game, but Jonny and Boris were gone.


Or so it seemed to him. Jonny and Boris actually suddenly found themselves plummeting through space with no idea which way was up until they came crashing to the surface. They might have met their doom on impact except that they landed on some kind of gelatinous mass which exploded as soon as they made contact but whatever it was mercifully broke their fall so that they were uninjured. They picked themselves up, wiped the residual goo from off themselves as best they could, and finally took stock of where they were. It was a strangely cartoonish land of brightly garish colors populated by a race of people that came up to Jonny’s waist. As Jonny and Boris walked through the streets, they quickly recognized the face of their friend Harmony Sanchez whom they hadn’t seen in person in months. They were overjoyed and quickly ran over to give the pint-sized version of their beloved crony a hug.

"Merry Christmas, Harmony!" shouted Jonny as he threw his arms around his old pal. "I can’t tell you how nice it is to see you! I want to hear everything about your life!"

Harmony simply fixed a steely gaze at him and barked "The cops who killed Breonna Taylor got off scot free!"

"Uh, yeah...that’s terrible, Harmony," responded Jonny, not expecting that reaction from the first person he knew in Facebook. "I want to talk about the injustice of that but first I want to hear about you!"

Harmony reacted by holding up a massive scroll.

"Sign this petition if you think the cops who killed Breonna Taylor should be brought to justice!"

"Okay," said Jonny, shakily signing his name to the document. "Now let’s talk about you."

But with the signature acquired, Harmony simply turned and repeated loudly to everyone in earshot "The cops who killed Breonna Taylor got off scot free!" To his surprise, Jonny saw most of the tiny people that surrounded them firmly held up their thumbs at Melody’s statement, and a few stunned him by reaching into their rib cages, pulling their beating hearts out of their chest cavities and holding the organs high over their heads. Rather than being horrified at the sight, Melody appeared deeply touched and took off to continue shouting about Breonna Taylor.

"What the hell was that?" asked Boris.

"I have no idea," replied Jonny. "Let’s find out."

The pair spent the next hour walking the streets of the strange little town and quickly realized that half-sized versions of everyone they knew lived there. And every time they saw them, Jonny and Boris would wish them a Merry Christmas only to be responded to with some left-wing political statement that would be met with thumbs ups and dislodged vascular organs by everyone in earshot. It seemed to make sense to everyone they encountered but Jonny and Boris were befuddled.

Jonny and boris quickly realized that half-sized versions of everyone they knew lived there.

"What is this place?" asked Jonny to himself.

Or so he thought, because an angelic voice answered from behind him "You are in Muncheesland."

They turned around to see the gorgeous visage of their friend Mara Marina, clad in a bikini as if she had just spent a day at the beach but with perfect hair and makeup as though she had just stepped out of the salon.

"What’s Muncheesland, Mara?" asked Boris as Jonny was too light-headed from the sudden rush of blood to his penis at the sight of this gorgeous female to be able to speak.

"Oh, I’m not Mara," she corrected. "I’m the image of Mara from her Instagram feed, one of the incredibly hot chicks who rule the Internet. By the way, would you like some of my favorite pick-me-up, Strong Coffee? Strong Coffee’s instant latte mix combines time released caffeine & L-Theanine (supports concentration & memory) so I am alert & on point all day."

"I’m a pug," replied Boris. "We don’t really drink coffee."

Mara’s eyes suddenly glazed over and she appeared to lose interest in the conversation but fortunately, Jonny (who spent hours every day staring at pictures of bikini-clad babes on Instagram and knew the rules of ogling their online beauty) regained his power of speech at the exact second she was about to walk away and he blurted out "I love coffee! I’m going to use the passcode MARASTRONG in your Instagram profile for a discount to buy thirty pounds!!!"

The warmth in Mara’s perfect face suddenly returned.

"Muncheesland is the home of the Munchees, the most left-leaning group on Facebook," she said as she adjusted the elastic strap of her bikini bottoms as if she was about to give them a glimpse of her unmentionables but always just failing to show off anything really good. "It got its name because everyone who lives here is a big supporter of marijuana legalization. This is the part of Facebook where the bleeding heart liberals spend the day shouting Democratic propaganda at each other that they think is radical and alarming but which everyone around them completely agrees with."

"If there are any Trump supporters hearing this," shouted a pint-sized version of Jonny and Boris’ friend Braddon Mendelson, "they can unfriend me right now!!!"

Mara smiled and patted his head, knowing that there wasn’t a Trump supporter within 50 miles of the sound of any of the Munchees’ voices.

"Why is everyone so small?" asked Jonny.

"Everyone in Muncheesland is a diminished version of the person they are in real life," replied Mara as she seductively adjusted her bikini top. "In your universe, people have hundreds of interests and a deeply evolved personality developed by a lifetime of experience. But here, they’re only interested in five or six things and they’re all trying to project a perfect image of themselves, which actually makes them even smaller."

"It doesn’t seem to affect you," said Boris.

"That’s because I’m the most valued thing on the entire Internet," she replied. "A smokin’ hot chick. In fact, I came here because another gorgeous Internet goddess was just crushed by a projectile from outer space, and I have to look into it because when one of us goes, that makes more work for all the other hot chicks."

"She wasn’t splattered into a pile of gelatinous goo, was she?" asked Boris while licking on the remnants of the accident on the seat of Jonny’s pants.

"Oh, my God!" shrieked Mara with amusement. "You’re the guys who crushed that bitch into oblivion?"

"You don’t mind?" asked Jonny.

"Relax," said Mara. "The hot chick you crushed was 1950s fetish model Bettie Page, who died in 2008 so you needn’t worry about anyone from your universe coming after you. But she still has a huge following on the Social Network and when the main dominatrix of the Internet finds out that you pulverized her, she’s going to be pissed. If I were you, I’d leave Muncheesland ASAP."

"Professor Morlock said that we needed to get out of Facebook within 24 hours anyway," said Jonny, surprised that this year's story was wrapping up so early. "And seeing as this place isn’t really what I had in mind and a vindictive dominatrix is after us, I guess no one will mind if we leave a little early."

"You can leave Facebook?" asked a surprised Mara. "How did he tell you to do that?"

Jonny and Boris shot each other concerned looks as they realized that they never got instructions from Morlock on how to return.

"I accidentally saved the setting before he did that," said Jonny. "Can you tell us how to get out of here?"

"I didn’t even know it was possible to leave the Social Network," responded Mara as she struck a seductive pose while simultaneously projecting the illusion that she had no idea that she was being sexy while she was doing it. "The only person I can think of who would be wise enough to know would be Santa Claus."

"You mean Santa is on the Social Network?" asked Jonny.

"Oh, sure," replied Mara. "He’s had a place in Facebook ever since he switched to an all-virtual platform ten years ago. And now that I think of it, Christmas Day is the perfect day to ask him because he’s done delivering presents and he’s got some free time on his hands."

"And how can we find Santa?" asked Jonny while Boris closed his eyes in disbelief, refusing to accept that they were actually about to do what they were about to be doing.

"Just follow the red and white road."


Word spread quickly through Muncheesland that Jonny and Boris had killed Bettie Page and since there was a huge niche fetish on the Internet devoted to her spanking the little people, the Munchees were delighted to see her snuffed out. Before they would let Jonny and Boris leave on their journey, they had a ceremony where the Mayor of the Munchees City sang their praises and a trio from The Lollipop Guild gave them a giant sucker which was so laced with hashish that Boris got a contact high just from standing too close to it. Mara was about to start the pair on their way when an angry voice rang from the scene where Bettie Page had met her grisly fate shook the ground.

"What the what? Who the hell turned Bettie Page into a grease spot?"

Jonny recognized the voice immediately as his friend Snow Mercy, one of the kindest, most generous and most philanthropic people he had ever had the pleasure to know. But she was also a world-famous dominatrix and fetish model and Jonny had seen enough of her videos
Snow has starred in countless spanking videos with titles like Step-Daddy's Princess Spanked and Strapped and Snow Spanks Her Boss at His House. They're all awesome.
to realize that that her Internet alter ego was inclined to pulverize the backside of anyone who displeased her until it looked like a couple of stewed tomatoes. The muse was both terrified and turned on and hid behind Mara in a vain attempt to conceal the bulge in his jeans. Boris took out some ninja throwing stars to protect his master as a massive explosion of smoke erupted in front of them. When the black fog dissipated, a gorgeous woman with close-cropped hair and clad head-to-toe in black, form-fitting latex stood before them, holding a forbidding looking paddle in her perfectly-manicured hand. She got right to the point.

"Who turned Bettie into a pile of gelatinous goo?" Snow demanded. But Mara was unimpressed.

"Away with you!" the blonde goddess ordered as she adjusted the straps of her high heel shoes which she was inexplicably wearing with a bikini. "Bettie Page met the fate that she had long deserved and you will too if you dawdle around here another moment! And to give you the energy to leave quickly, try some Smart Sweets! Radically better Gummy Worms with 81% less sugar than the other worms and only 4 grams of sugar for the whole bag!"

But Snow wasn’t paying attention to Mara, as she was now fixated on the vestiges of gelatinous goo that stuck to the seat of Jonny’s pants.

Snow Mercy fixated on the vestiges of gelatinous goo that stuck to the seat of Jonny’s pants.

"And who is this bad boy?" the dominatrix asked seductively. "And why are Bettie’s living guts stuck to his naughty bottom? Could he have fallen into Muncheesland and flattened her like a pancake? He needs to be punished for that!"

Jonny was impressed at the accuracy of Snow’s deductive reasoning and was open to hearing what she had in mind and if a safe word would be permitted, but Boris wasn’t taking any chances. The pug threw the razor sharp throwing star at Snow’s jugular with deadly accuracy, but she batted it away with her spanking paddle like a child playing whiffle ball.

"You’re in my domain now, puppy dog," she hissed. "Your little toys won’t work on me!"

"It’s my domain, too," replied Mara. "You can’t hurt Jonny as long as he’s wearing these!"

She pointed to the muse’s feet and everyone looked down to see that he now had Saint Laurent Women's Soixante Seize Over-the-Knee High Heel Black Boots with Stiletto Heels on his feet, which sell retail for $2,300. Snow couldn’t hide her anger when she beheld them.

"Dammit, Mara!" she yelled. "You know perfectly well that Bettie willed those to me if she was crushed by a celestial body entering our atmosphere!"

"I don’t care!" snorted Mara. "The boots are on Jonny’s feet and there they shall remain until he’s finished his journey."

"Actually," interrupted the muse, "I don’t think I can walk in these. I’ve never even tried to wear high heels before, and Bettie’s feet were much smaller than mine."

"Begone," ordered Mara, doing her best to ignore Jonny’s whining. "Before another idiot falls out of the sky and crushes you, too!"

"I’m going," sneered Snow as she took one last covetous look at the boots on Jonny’s feet. "But don’t think this is over. I’ll get you, my pretty! And your little dog too!!!"

With that, another cloud of black smoke exploded in front of the dominatrix and when it dissolved, she was gone.

"I think we’d better get out of here while’s the going’s good," said Boris.


The Munchees gave Jonny and Boris a nice send-off on their journey, singing a repetitive but catchy song about how they needed to follow the red and white road to get to Santa. The pair saw many of the Social Media-reduced versions of their friends as they skipped their way out of Muncheesland and cheerily shouted ‘Merry Christmas’ at them while the pint-sized manifestations of their buddies gaily responded by holding up memes of The Office or pug pictures that Jonny had already seen hundreds of times. But it was a happy start to their journey and they were making good time as they approached the border and beheld a bizarre M.C. Escher-escque structure. On the door hung a sign reading "Welcome to the Facebook profile page of Jonny M."

"Do we have time to check it out?" asked a nervous Jonny.

"Oh, HELL to the yes," responded Boris enthusiastically as he pushed open the door and they entered.

What they beheld was nothing short of chaos. Jonny and Boris' friend James Cleveland, who Jonny liked to tease because of his towering height, stood a colossal thirty feet tall and played an insane rendition of Linda Ronstadt’s Mad Love on the fiddle while Tom Ashworth backed him up on the accordion and Jesse Merlin, dressed in a velvet tuxedo and ascot, sang the lead. Jonny’s Bro Joe was off in a corner dressed in full Junior Ranger accoutrement fist-fighting a grizzly bear. Jonny’s close buddy Glenn Simon sat off by himself gazing adoringly at his Boob Cup and their lesbian chums Robin and Lacie ran around in tiny bikinis, inexplicably having identical bodies.

Jonny and Boris stared at each other dumbfounded when the spell was broken as they were approached by their friend Rosie De Candia. Rosie had the same rockin’ pink hair and warm, expressive face that she dazzled everyone with in the "real" universe, but here she had the body of a Playboy centerfold and was dressed as a sexy baby with a banner across her massive bosom reading 2021.

Rosie was dressed as a sexy baby with a banner across her massive bosom reading 2021.

"Are you ready to have sex?" she asked Jonny.

The muse did a spit take, which was a neat trick because he hadn’t had anything to drink in hours.

"We won’t really have sex, of course," she continued, adjusting the seductive thong that was supposed to represent a diaper. "But we need to stand next to each other while I look at you with bedroom eyes until that asshole makes another picture. It looks like he Photoshopped you much fatter than he usually does."

"What is going on?" whispered Boris to his master. "And why is she dressed like that?"

"I was Photoshopping a picture of Rosie as Baby New Year when Professor Morlock called," murmured Jonny. "I guess these are all the subjects of my pictures come to life."

The muse directed his attention back to Rosie. "Can we talk to the guy who owns this house?"

"You mean the asshole?" she responded testily, the cheeriness draining from his pretty face. "We’d all like to talk to him."

"Why haven’t you?" asked Boris, not really wanting to hear the answer but knowing that the exposition was important to this stupid story.

"You must have noticed that everyone in Muncheesland is a diminished version of what they are in the real universe," she answered. "That guy’s Facebook feed is such a reduction of the human spirit that he’s about the size of an ant here. I only wish that I could run into him so that I could step on his tiny ass."

"Why do you hate him so much?" asked Jonny. "He’s made you incredibly hot."

"That’s all he’s interested in doing," she fired back. "Sure, he always gives me rockin’ awesome tits, but he never gives me a brain. That’s the only thing I ever wanted!"

Only then did Jonny notice the empty gaze behind Rosie’s brown eyes, something that he had never even tried to correct in his Photoshop images.

"We"re on our way to visit Santa so that we can go home," said Boris. "I’m sure that if you asked him nicely, he would give you a..."

Jonny shot the pug a killer glare to try and keep him from finishing his sentence, but Boris was immune to intimidation and after pausing to wonder why his master was looking at him like a seasick maniac, said the word that the muse didn’t want Photoshop Rosie to hear.

"A brain."

"Do you think Santa would do that?" she asked joyously. "It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted!!! And when I have a brain, I can find out all about you two and we can figure out a way to make the asshole pay for all the wrong that he’s done to us here. Let me just change out of this stupid baby costume and we’ll be on our way!"

"You do that," answered Jonny as he glowered at Boris with ice-cold eyes while Rosie scampered into the changing room. "You just do that."


It didn’t take Photoshop Rosie long to change into her "Santa’s Helper" red velvet miniskirt with white faux fur fringe and the trio was back on the red and white road. They shortly passed the border out of Muncheesland and found themselves in downtown Facebook City where every manner of online freak was parading in front of them. One guy was trying to usher them into a sleazy theatre to see a YouTube video about hot-dogging skateboarders that ended in trauma to their heads and genitalia. Another dude wanted them to stop and take a survey to determine which Star Trek captain they were. They were nearly sidelined by some pussycats putting on a fashion show but they muscled past it, sticking to their objective of visiting Santa before their 24 hours ran out. But Boris finally called their attention to a problem that they couldn’t ignore.

"I’m starving," said the pug. "What do we have in the way of food?"

"I didn’t think to bring any," said Jonny. "And I have no idea how to buy any in this crazy place."

"Then we have no choice," said Boris. "You convince the next passerby that you’ll give him a blowjob in the alley next to us and once he’s there, I’ll murder him and we can feast on his flesh."

"That isn’t necessary," interrupted Photoshop Rosie. "This is Facebook. Things work differently here. Just take out your iPad and Google your favorite food."

Jonny and Boris didn’t have to think about it. They looked at each other and said simultaneously "Ben & Jerry’s AmeriCone Dream Ice Cream."

"Okay," said Rosie. "Just enter it in the Google search and click the magnifying glass icon."

Jonny dubiously followed the directions and to his astonishment, ten gallons of the gooey treat was suddenly in front of them.

"Like I said, this is Facebook," said Rosie as she handed them both spoons. "All you need is to do a Google search of something and it miraculously shows up on your newsfeed. It’s pretty creepy if you ask me."

"Don’t you want any ice cream?" asked Jonny as he and Boris began to gorge themselves.

"No thanks," she answered. "To maintain my smokin’ hot figure, the asshole Photoshops me so that I only get hungry for a dry salad and some lemon water every two weeks. If I try to eat any more than that, I violently hurl my guts out and he sells the pictures to a Japanese fetish website. I’ll just wait for you two to finish."

The way Jonny and Boris eat, it didn’t take long. They inhaled the ice cream and laid on the side of the road looking like a couple of beached whales. They finally sensed Rosie’s annoyance at their piggishness and dragged their bloated asses off the pavement when Jonny was approached by one of the most gorgeous young women that he had had ever laid eyes on.

"My name is Ambrosia Juggs," she said, batting her large, innocent eyes. "Will you be my Facebook friend?"

Boris sensed something strange and opened the Facebook app on the iPad. "I’m looking at her profile and the weird thing is, she has no other friends and has never posted anything."

"It’s obvious what’s going on here," said Jonny as Ambrosia rubbed her perfect body against his blubbery gut. "She’s been lurking shyly on Facebook but has never found a man hot enough to interest her until she happened upon me."

"That’s one theory," said Photoshop Rosie while quietly sidling up to the young woman. "But I have another."

She quickly reached out and snatched a rubber mask off of Ambrosia’s head to reveal a chilling mechanical face.

"She’s a Russian bot," said Rosie contemptuously. "She was trying to seduce you in order to get access to your Facebook profile and steal all of your personal data."

"You hef vun dis round," said the bot, now speaking in a Boris & Natasha Russian accent, "but you vill soon be entering Trump Kuntry vere you vill be encountering a way of tinking zat you hef never seen de likes of before. Snow Mercy vill hef those boots for her own!"

With that, the Russian bot disappeared into a puff of smoke.


It didn’t take long for our heroes to realize what the bot meant. They continued their way on the red and white road and quickly made their way out of Facebook City and into a seedy backwoods. They saw no hint of civilization until they came across a forbidding sign reading "TRUMP KUNNTRY. Furreners and Libtards: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!"

Jonny, Boris and Rosie looked warily at each other but saw that the red and white road leading to Santa Claus had no alternate sideroads so if they wanted to achieve their goals, they would have to take the route through the forbidding swamp. But they began to wonder if it was worth it when they passed through the first trees camouflaging the entrance and they heard the opening notes from Dueling Banjos being played not far in the distance. Soon, they viewed collection of ramshackle sheds where a community of rustic hillbillys were screaming outrageously implausible conspiracy theories about Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders. But unlike Muncheesland where declarations were responded to with thumbs up and hearts being held aloft, the Trumpians reacted with angry orange faces and sneering, derisive laughter.

The three travelers huddled close to each other as they picked up the pace to try and pass through unnoticed.

"Why are they all so big?" whispered Jonny to Rosie. "Everyone in Muncheesland was tiny because they were reduced by their Facebook rantings. But everyone in Trump Kuntry is at least a foot taller than they are in the regular universe."

"Trumpians all have an inflated sense of self-importance on the Social Network," she answered nervously. "they’re all much bigger here even though they’re tiny and insignificant everywhere else."

They picked up the pace as the Trumpians began to notice them passing through and were about to break into a full run when they were stopped in their tracks by a thickset country sheriff blocking the path.

"It seems that we have some strangers in our midst," drawled the lawman while pulling out a book of color swatches. "Let me just check your skin tone to make sure y’all belong here."

Jonny’s pasty complexion acquired from a childhood spent indoors watching television and masturbating allowed him to pass the test easily while Rosie’s swarthier Italian skin tone was on the high end of allowable, but after a moment the sheriff leered at the ample cleavage Jonny had thought to Photoshop her with and let her pass. When he got to Boris, the pug merely bared his fangs at the lawman and flashed some nunchucks he carried with him and the officer decided to back off.

"I’m Sheriff Buford T. Racist," said the lawman while putting the swatch book back in his pocket. "The law here in Trump Kuntry. Y’all want to tell me what your business is these parts?"

Jonny and Photoshop Rosie clutched together as a crowd of yokels began amassing around them while Boris studied the horde to determine which ones he would need to kill first if any shit went down.

Jonny and Rosie clutched together as a crowd of yokels began amassing around them.

"Merry Christmas, Sheriff!" chimed Jonny with an exaggerated sense of holiday cheer. "We were just traveling down the red and white road to..."

"You can only say ‘Merry Christmas’ again because of President Trump," sneered a yokel. "When Obama was president, everyone had to say "Happy Holidays."

"Obama even tried to make it illegal in the U.S. constitution to say ‘Merry Christmas,’" shouted another. "How the hell is Jesus supposed to know that we’re wishing him happy birthday if we’re not allowed to say what holiday it is we’re thinking about?"

The crowd signaled their approval of the sentiments by flashing angry orange faces.

"That’s actually not true," chuckled Jonny nervously. "Everyone I know has been saying ‘Merry Christmas’ without a second thought for our entire lives. It’s true that we often say ‘Happy Holidays ’ but that’s so our friends who observe other festivities, like Hanukkah or Kwanzaa for instance, are included in our love of the season."

"Kwanzaa?" responded Sheriff Racist while unbuckling the holster to his service revolver. "Are you telling me that y’all run with the likes of people who celebrate Kwanzaa?"

"Well, no," replied Jonny honestly. "The truth is that no one in Muncheesland knows anyone who actually celebrates Kwanzaa. But we want to send out the message that if we did, that there is a place set for them at our holiday table."

The sea of angry orange faces became angrier and oranger.

"This here boy is Antifa!" shouted one of the yokels. "In fact, all three of them are!"

"Let’s string `em up!"

Jonny boldly stood in front of Rosie to protect her while Boris ran into the crowd and knocked at least two dozen of them to the ground with flawless Judo kicks to the head. As the vigilantes were about to place a rope around his neck, Jonny realized that he only had time for one final desperate display of contempt to the Trumpians. So he dropped his pants, turned around, and waved his bare ass at the crowd.

To his astonishment, that stopped the rabble in their tracks. Jonny and Rosie shared confused looks as the muse pulled up his pants. But their triumph was short-lived as the sheriff grabbed Jonny by the arm and began dragging him away.

"That display of public nudity breached the Facebook community standards," said Racist. "You just earned yourself a thirty-day stretch in the Facebook Jail!"

Jonny tried to object but the sheriff simply took out his Billy Club and struck the muse across the face, knocking him unconscious.


Jonny awoke with a throbbing headache in a tiny jail cell. Sitting beside him on the rickety bunk bed was a man with a kindly face wearing overalls and a "Make America Great Again" cap.

"That was quite a knock to the head you took," he said, offering Jonny a sip from his flask.

"Merry Christmas," responded the muse as he waved off the offer of booze, having given up drinking after his heart attack. "If it still is Christmas, I mean."

"Hell yes, it’s still Christmas," replied the man while taking a swig. "You know, you can only say ‘Merry Christmas’ again because of President Tr..."

"I had that conversation outside," interrupted Jonny. "That’s what got me in here."

"Those boys don’t mean no harm," said the man while studying the bump on Jonny’s head. "None of us Trump followers did at first. The problem is that once you became a supporter, you lost your heart and you couldn’t find sympathy for anyone else."

The man then pulled down the bib of his overalls and displayed a massive hole where his heart should be.

"I wasn’t a bad guy when all this started," said the man while readjusting his clothes to hide his shame. "But the more I followed Trump, the less I could focus on anything else because I no longer had the heart to recognize any other point of view. I had no idea how much I was surrendering to follow that feller. I’d give anything to get my heart back."

"I’d give anything to get my heart back." the man said.

"We"re on our way to visit Santa Claus," said Jonny kindly. "I’ll bet if you joined us, he’d be happy to give you a heart."

The man broke into hysterical laughter.

"Boy, you’re in Facebook Jail for 30 days and you ain’t going nowhere. Believe me, I know. I met what I thought was a woman on a Trump community board last night so I private-messaged her a dick pick because nothing is as irresistible to a woman as a dick pick. She turned out to be one of those Russian bots and she posted it publicly so that it looked like I posted a photo of my own wiener on my newsfeed. By the time I get out of here, Mr. Trump will be starting his second term after they realize that the Libtards stole the election and he actually got a million more electrical votes than Hunter Biden did."

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Rosie and Boris were at the bars with the key to the cell jangling in Boris’ paw.

"How did you manage to spring me?" asked Jonny as the pug opened the door to freedom.

"I just remembered that the asshole Photoshopped me with lengendarily busty Latin spitfire Salma Hayek’s boobs so I flashed them at the sheriff," Rosie explained. "Facebook apparently has vastly different rules about female nudity vs. male nudity so he said he’d let you off with a warning if I’d just PM him a .jpg of my tits. He would have explained this to you himself but as soon as he handed over the keys, Boris Judo-chopped him in the windpipe and he’s being rushed to the hospital as we speak. Let’s go."

"Wait," said Jonny. "My friend here wants to get his heart back after misguidedly following Trump, and I said that he could come with us so that he could make his case to Santa. I’d like you to meet...uhhh."

"Grover Cornelius Rathbone-Throneberry IV," volunteered the man after realizing that he’d never given Jonny his name. "But to keep the patronizing attitude of my character consistent to the readers of this idiotic story, you can call me Gomer."


The addition of Gomer to the group got the party through Trump Kuntry without further incident. Usually, just the sight of his MAGA hat was enough to let them blend in but whenever someone cocked an eye at Jonny’s dominatrix boots or Rosie’s pink hair, he would rant loudly about how the Mueller Report was filled with Antifa secret code and the Trumpians would agree with an angry orange face and let them pass.

But ultimately the swamp of Trump Kuntry turned into a forest so thick that the four could barely see where they were going. The rough underbrush became so overgrown that it almost buried the red and white road and only Boris hacking away at the tundra with his ninja sword allowed them to continue. And while they didn’t see another person since passing Trump Kuntry’s border, they were always aware of someone looking at them."

"Where is this place?" Jonny asked when he noticed the yellow eyes glaring at them through the trees.

"This is Lurker Forest," said Gomer ominously. "This is the place where people with Facebook profiles who never comment on anything and only stare silently at what goes on around them."

"Has anyone ever talked to a Lurker?" Photoshop Rosie asked.

"Not that I’ve ever heard tell of," he replied through gritted teeth. "Oh, you may bump into one on a classic movie community group or see a ‘like’ to a comment on George Takei’s newsfeed but generally, they keep to themselves."

The words had no further come out Gomer’s mouth than he stumbled over one of the pathetic creatures bending over in the dark to get a better look at a Randy Rainbow video.

"Don’t hurt me," it pleaded as Jonny helped it to its feet. "I was only coming out for a second because I wanted to hear one of Randy’s delightful mashups of political commentary and Broadway show tunes. As soon as it was over, I was going to sink back into the darkness."

"I wasn’t going to hurt you," the muse reassured the frightened beast. "I just wanted to be sure that you were okay before we moved on. Man, You’re a wuss."

"I’m a normal, jovial and social guy in the real universe," said the beast sadly. "But as soon as I logon to Facebook, I’m suddenly terrified that I’ll post something that will come back to bite me in the ass later on. So I just spend a few hours looking at other people’s posts and hope that no one notices me. I don’t know why I’m that way, but I am."

"I think I know the answer," said Boris after examining the beast’s backside. "His profile has no testicles, which means that he has no courage in the Facebook universe. I don’t have testicles either, but dogs carry their courage in their tails. Only men carry it in their balls."

"He has no testicles," Boris said.

"What about women?" asked Rosie.

"Women need more courage than anybody just to be women," responded Boris sagely. "They have so much courage that it oozes out of every nook and cranny in their bodies."

"I wish that I had the balls to make myself known on Facebook," said the beast sadly. "But the idea terrifies me so much that I prefer to linger here in the safety of Lurker Forest."

"We"re on our way to visit Santa Claus," said Jonny cheerfully. "He’s going to get Boris and me home, Rosie a brain and Gomer a heart. I’m sure that he could provide you with a nutsack."

"Do you think so?" asked the beast excitedly. "I’ve longed to mock Gwyneth Paltrow’s moronic lifestyle company Goop on the Social Network but I could never find the courage."

The four looked at each other for a moment to get a consensus and, with smiles all around, Jonny made the pronouncement.

"You’re coming with us to see Santa. We’re going to get you some balls."


The Cowardly Beast proved to be a valuable addition to the group as Russian bots kept appearing as they made their way through the forest. Just as it seemed like the bots were about to talk Jonny out of his dominatrix boots, the balless creature would whimper and moan like a little bitch until the Cyborgs became so frustrated that they would curse at it in a thick Slavic accent, revealing who they actually were. The quintet passed through some of the most obscure and little-seen areas of the Social Network, like the Facebook Terms & Conditions page and birthday fundraiser requests from people you vaguely remember going to high school with but have no idea how they wound up on your Friends list. But finally, the trees began thinning and they could see sunlight on the other side.

"We’ve made it to the other end of the forest!" exclaimed Jonny. "We"re almost at Santa’s newsfeed!!!"

The group’s hearts all soared as they could see Saint Nick’s fabulous mansion in the distance (except for the heartless Gomer, who feigned excitement by plucking a hair from his nose so that tears of joy appeared to stream down his face). They simultaneously broke into a run until they were at the door of the beautiful blue and white estate. But when they knocked at the door, it was answered by a kindly but tired-looking bearded man in flowing blue robes topped by a rabbical cap with white fur trim.

"Uh...Merry Christmas," said Jonny, a bit flustered by the development. "We’d like to see Santa Claus, please."

"He’s about a mile down the road," smiled the man in a thick Yiddish accent. "I’m Hanukkah Harry. It’s nice to have some visitors. I’ve been spending all day buried in Facebook messages from goyim wishing their friends ‘a Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah to those to celebrate it.’"

"But wasn’t Hanukkah over a week ago?" asked a confused Boris.

"They think Hanukkah is the Jewish Christmas," shrugged Harry. "Even when it's over in November, I get slammed with greetings on December 25th. The goyim mean well, but whattaya going to do? Anyway, if you take the red and white road one more mile, you’ll find a fork where it goes in five different directions. Northwest takes you into the Twitter universe. That’s always open, but the noise there will drive you insane. Northeast brings you to LinkedIn. Today’s a work holiday, so you’d be wasting your time taking that. Southeast is the Instagram universe. The only one of you who has any chance of surviving there is the shiksa hottie here."

Rosie tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile as she adjusted her miniskirt to show off a maximum amount of thigh.

"The southwest road brings you to TikTok," continued Harry, focusing his attention back on Jonny. "You don’t want to go anywhere near there because you’re so old, you wouldn’t last five minutes. The direction you want is due north. That will take you to Santa’s Facebook newsfeed."

The group thanked Harry for taking the time to help them and he gave each member a bag of Hanukkah gelt and returned to respond to his endless well-intentioned but belated messages. Jonny, Rosie, Boris, Gomer and the Beast happily skipped down the road knowing that their destination was almost reached. When they reached the promised fork in the road, Boris took out the iPad and did a Google search for "compass" and one magically appeared in front of them. Jonny grabbed it and studied it for a moment.

"Due north is that way," announced the muse. "We"re almost to Santa!"

Sure enough, they skipped over the hill and when they reached the top, they beheld a magnificent red and green castle in the distance. The group all let out a spontaneous cheer and ran to the front door. They knocked and expected to be greeted by a quirky doorman with outrageous facial hair. But they waited several minutes and no one answered. Jonny was stymied.

"I’m not sure what to do. What do you think, Boris?"

The group looked around and noticed for the first time that the pug was no longer with them. They retraced their steps back to Hanukkah Harry’s but the kindly rabbi couldn’t help them (although he did give them some more gelt and a Tupperware container of brisket to eat while they searched). Sensing no other option, they returned to Santa’s castle and as they walked back, they were chilled to see a Russian bot skywriting "SURRENDER JONNY" in the dimming twilight. But their spirits lifted when they found Boris waiting for them at the castle entrance.

"Where were you?" asked Jonny as he gave the little dog a relieved hug.

"Taking a poop," Boris responded. "I’ve been holding it in since Muncheesland and all that ice cream we ate is a powerful laxative."

The group knocked on the door one more time and still received no response, so they finally nudged it open, stuck their heads inside and were surprised to find that the castle seemed to be unoccupied. They toured the complex from empty room to empty room and saw no one until they finally came across a massive archway bookended by two Gargantuan Christmas trees. They entered to see an exhausted-looking Rubenesque man with a massive beard sitting on a throne at the far end of the room wearing a red bathrobe and gingerly sipping a cup of coffee. There was no mistaking who he was.

"I am Claus, the great and powerful!" he thundered when he noticed the intruders. "Who are you?"

"I am Claus, the great and powerful!"

"I am Jonny, the meek and small," the muse responded timidly, hoping to almighty Christ that Santa wouldn’t remember him from their countless other encounters in these stupid stories over the decades. "How come no one else is in the castle? We expected to see elves at your beck and call."

"I gave them Christmas Day off," replied Santa with a testiness that caught Jonny off guard. "What am I, an asshole? They’ve been pulling double shifts for the last month just to make sure that all the presents got made. Why are you here? If you came to send Hanukkah greetings, you need to see the guy down the street."

"We’ve come to ask you for..."

"Ask, ask, ask!!!" interrupted Santa angrily. "I’ve just spent the last 24 hours delivering toys to all the good little boys and girls of the world. You’d think Christmas would be the one day of the year when I could just enjoy my coffee and get some alone time and just focus on me."

The group looked crestfallen so the not-so-jolly old elf changed to a more bussinesslike tone.

"The magnificent Santa of Claus knows exactly why you have come here," he said softly while giving his coffee another sip. "It’s doable...very doable. But what upsets me is that you never even thought to do me the respect of finding out if you could do anything for me first."

The group held their heads in shame as Jonny spoke for his friends.

"You’re right," said the muse. "Is there anything that we can do for you?"

"Oh no," replied Santa as he rose from his throne. "If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. Take my chair."

Jonny sat down dubiously in the red and green throne. As soon as the muse was in position, Santa sat on his lap, nearly crushing Jonny’s femur with his massive weight.

"Now you see what it’s like to have some nasty-ass freeloader sit on your lap to beg for freebies," sneered Saint Nick with a sadistic gleam in his eye. "Like I said, I know exactly why you are here. I will grant your requests but first, you must do something for me!"

Santa’s eyes narrowed as Jonny awaited his instructions. "You must bring me Snow Mercy’s spanking paddle!!!"

The muse was surprised at the order. "You’re taking this naughty/nice thing a little far, aren’t you?" he asked of the enormously obese man who was presently flattening his right thigh and testicle. "I really think the kids on your list will fly right when they realize that they won’t get the latest Nintendo game in their stocking if they don’t. You don't need to bring corporal punishment into it."

"That’s not what I want it for, you twisted bastard," responded Santa angrily as he rose from Jonny’s lap to refill his coffee. "Children should never be spanked! That should always be between consenting adults! Anyway, that’s the offer. Go to Snow Mercy’s dungeon and get me the paddle, and I’ll give you and your friends what you want."

"We’ve already traveled such a long way," replied Jonny as he tried to massage some life back into his pummeled thigh.

"Snow Mercy’s dungeon is right next door," countered Santa. "I think that I speak for everyone when I say that I’d like this stupid story to be over as quickly as possible. Do we have a deal?"

Jonny studied the faces of each of his companions and their committed visages told him everything he needed to know.

"We have a deal," he said.


The five friends formulated an elaborate plot to overtake Snow Mercy’s guards and gain access to the dungeon as they crossed the street from Santa’s castle. But when they arrived, they not only didn’t encounter any sentries but when they entered the lobby, the only thing that seemed to be between them and the dungeon door was a sweet young redhead sitting at the reception desk.

"Do you have an appointment?" she smiled as the quintet approached her. "Snow is finishing up her last session of the day but I think she’d be willing to fit in one more before she takes off."

"Appointment?" asked Jonny in a disastrously futile attempt to be intimidating. "We ain’t got no appointment. We don’t need no appointment. I don’t have to have any stinking appointment!"

The receptionist was nonplussed, not having any idea how to respond to a moronic parody of Treasure of the Sierra Madre in the middle of what was already a moronic parody of The Wizard of Oz. Fortunately, the imposing figure of Snow Mercy — dressed as a strict, no-nonsense schoolteacher and carrying the spanking paddle that Santa wanted — walked through the dungeon door and into the lobby.

"I’m all finished with Mitch, Dorothy," the dominatrix said with a smile to the receptionist. "He’ll be leaving through the rear exit, so you can take off."

"Not so fast!" cried Jonny as his friends stood bravely behind him. "You have one more session today!"

Snow’s beautiful face curled into an icy smirk as she beheld the group in her web. "I’ll take care of these numbskulls, Dorothy," she said. "Just lock the door on your way out."

The Mistress led the group into her dungeon, a suite of rooms with the most intimidating collection of BDSM gear ever collected. She finally settled on the 1950's style schoolroom that she had her last appointment in and motioned the group to sit in the vintage rickety wooden school desks as Gomer, getting flashbacks to his childhood in the Tennessee educational system in the "real" universe from the oppressive setting, reflexively exchanged his MAGA hat for the dunce cap placed beside the teacher's desk and went to stand in the shame corner. The assemblage waited awkwardly for someone to begin speaking, when the tension was broken by the rustling of a partition hiding the exit door.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!" Snow ordered as Jonny approached the flimsy barrier.

"Why?" challenged the muse. "Is it some puppet master who has been speaking for you all along?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head at Jonny’s stupidity. "It’s just my last client letting himself out into the parking lot. We place out clientele’s confidentiality and privacy above all else here."

She waited for the sound of the door to the parking lot abruptly closing before she continued.

"I know why you’re here," she finally continued. "That fat dimwit next door sent you to steal this."

She held the coveted spanking paddle high over her head as Jonny & Company shrunk back in fear.

"Do you really think that you’re the first people that Santa told he would grant their wishes if they got my spanking paddle for him? He’s been pulling this crap for years. He calls the reception desk at least ten times a day and then hangs up without saying anything, as if he’s never heard of caller ID. I keep telling him that he should just schedule a session with me and confront his fetishes in a safe and controlled environment, but he’s terrified that it will get out and ruin his wholesome image. But that doesn’t stop him from sending people in dire straits over here to get my paddle. The first person he conned into trying it was a sweet little farmgirl who strayed here from Kansas. Today, she’s my receptionist!"

"We didn’t come here to try and steal your paddle," responded Jonny gently. "We only came to wish you a Merry Christmas. And to give you these."

The muse leaned over and tried to pull Bettie Page’s boots off his feet but they were too tight. It finally took the efforts of Boris, Rosie and the Cowardly Beast (with Gomer refusing to budge as Snow Mercy lifted her ominous paddle when he made a move to leave his spot in the corner) to extract the Women’s size 5 footwear from off his Men’s size 9 hooves but after about fifteen minutes they were successful (even if the sight of his swollen, purple feet with black toenails oozing with puss did send the Cowardly Beast rushing to the wastebasket to puke his guts out) and Jonny handed the boots to his nemesis.

Jonny handed the boots to Snow.

"After Santa made his stupid deal with us," continued the muse, trying to hold back the agony of standing on his now unfettered grisly stumps, "we realized that Christmas is a time for giving, not for trying to wrangle something that we want out of someone."

"We also realized that you’re not really wicked at all," Boris added. "You’re just kinky as all get-out, and there’s nothing evil about that. We all have our fetishes. I eat my own poop."

"And I apparently have an obsession for dressing up in a nun’s habit and spanking adult men," said Rosie after noticing a copy of the Hack Werker novel The Spanking Nun among a nearby pile of text books, not realizing that Jonny had Photoshopped her onto the cover doing just that.

"And I like to hook up with libtard hippie chicks on Tinder and have them choke me while saying that Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is taking over the country," muttered Gomer from the corner.

"And I like to make myself vomit while staring at grotesque pictures of human disfigurement on the Internet," said the Cowardly Beast. "I’ve gotta say, the sight of Jonny’s fucked-up feet is the biggest turn-on I’ve had in ages."

"And anyone who’s ever read one of these stupid stories knows that I’m into a lot of out-there shit," concluded Jonny. "But this is the Yuletide, and it isn’t a time to judge. It’s a time for giving. So we hope that you’ll accept this gift of Bettie Page’s boots with no strings attached, along with our wishes for a very merry Christmas."

Snow Mercy said nothing as she beheld the astonishing windfall. She finally set the boots down, raised her paddle aloft, and slowly approached the five friends as the clock ticked inevitably in the background.


Santa finally decided to turn in at 11:30 after concluding that his latest attempt to get Snow Mercy’s paddle had failed yet again. But just as he turned out the light and fluffed his whiskers to rest outside his blanket so that the cold air would make them grow, he heard a sudden commotion from the throne room. He grabbed a candle to see what was going on and found that Jonny, Boris, Rosie, Gomer, the Cowardly Beast and Snow Mercy herself were happily drinking eggnog and singing Christmas Carols.

"What’s all this about?" demanded Kris Kringle at the unexpected gathering. "I have to accept a humanitarian award from the Riverside Chamber of Commerce tomorrow. I need my sleep!"

"This party’s just getting started, Chubby," said Snow Mercy as she wrapped her muscular arms around Santa in an affectionate hug. "And to get things going, I want to give you this."

She withdrew one hand to reveal that she was holding her spanking paddle with a colorful bow wrapped around it and handed it to Santa.

"I’ve got a whole closetful of these things, you silly bastard," the dominatrix smiled warmly. "If you hadn’t been such an uptight jerk all these years, I might have given you one a long time ago. Merry Christmas. And it just so happens that I have two hours blocked out in my schedule tomorrow from noon to 2:00. It’s not marked down for anyone in particular so if someone were to come into the dungeon through the back entrance, it would be impossible for anyone to find out if I had spent that time chastising his naughty backside."

Santa suddenly became flush with excitement and broke into a merry dance.

"This is the best Christmas ever!" he exclaimed as he reached into a cabinet and pulled out a Styrofoam ice chest. "And I have you five to thank for it."

"This is awesome!" said Jonny. "Are you going to give them a diploma, a medal, and a testimonial watch to show them that they had the qualities they coveted all along?"

"No, this will require a series of dangerous operations" said Santa, pulling a frozen brain, heart and scrotum sack out of the ice. "I’m going to perform the surgery tomorrow and implant the missing organs myself. I’ll have the elves prep you three at noon tomorrow so we can start the operation at 2:00." Then he winked at Snow Mercy. "That gives me time to take care of a personal errand at noon."

"And what about Boris and me?" asked Jonny nervously as the clocked showed 11:45, giving them only fifteen minutes until they were doomed to spend eternity inside the ridiculous place. "I don’t suppose there’s anything in that ice chest for us?"

"I gave the reindeer Christmas Day off," admitted Santa sadly. "I wouldn’t be able to get you out of Facebook before midnight, and my magic will be useless to you after that."

The entire room was filled with despair until Snow Mercy brought everyone back to life with a sudden jolt.

"Wait!" she cried. "You got here by going to Settings>Edit Profile> Extras>Enter the Facebook Universe at Your Own Peril on the Facebook app, and switching it on. What if you just switched it off?"

Jonny and Boris looked at each other awkwardly, feeling stupid that neither one of them had thought of that. As the pug fiddled with the iPad, the muse turned to his three traveling companions.

"I guess this is goodbye," he said, giving Gomer and the Cowardly Beast a hug. "I’ll never forget any of you. And you," he continued, tuning his attention to Rosie. "I think I’m going to miss you most of all. And I might as well admit to you now that I’m the asshole who Photoshopped you and everyone in my Facebook profile into all those silly pictures and without brains."

Rosie’s smile suddenly vanished. She drew back to punch Jonny in the jaw just as Boris was sliding the profile setting to "off." A nanosecond before her fist made contact with the muse’s face, he and the pug disappeared.


Jonny and Boris arrived back at Professor Morlock’s laboratory with a resounding crash. After making sure that they hadn’t crushed anybody during landing, they looked around to see the professor but found the place deserted. So they hopped back in the Jonnymobile and headed home to Casa De Jonny. But as they turned into the driveway, they were stunned to see the place packed with cars, all the lights on and Christmas music blaring through every window. Puzzled, they warily entered through the front door and were immediately greeted by their friend Harmony Sanchez, who enveloped them both in a warm bear hug.

"You’re late to your own party!" she scolded playfully as Jonny and Boris looked around to see everyone they knew partying their asses off. "Now that you’re both here, the fun can really get started."

"But why isn’t anyone wearing a mask?" asked Jonny.

"It’s not Halloween, you silly billy," answered Harmony. "Why would anyone wear a mask to a Christmas party?"

"But aren’t you all afraid of contracting Covid-19?" Jonny queried, wondering what the hell was going on.

"Covid-19?" responded Harmony. "You mean that terrible virus that’s ravaged Asia, Europe and South America? President Clinton took such quick and decisive action on it that it was never really an issue in the US. Where have you been?"

Jonny stood in a daze as Boris tugged at his pant leg to get his attention. The pug was looking at the iPad and saw that now, Clinton had won the election in a walk.

"When I told you that I had gone to take a poop when we were in Facebook," explained the little dog, "I actually ran over to Twitter and peppered Trump’s newsfeed with pro-Black Lives Matter tweets dating back to 2003. Trump never established a political base because everyone thought that he wasn’t a racist, Ted Cruz was the Republican nominee and Hillary got every electoral vote except for Tennessee and Florida, which ended in a tie."

Jonny made a mental note to triple Boris’ breakfast ration of pug food the next morning as they were approached by none other than Rosie De Candia, who gave the muse an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

"Merry Christmas," said Jonny. "Listen, I hope those silly pictures I post of you on Facebook aren’t a bother. I mean, I hope that you don’t think that you come off as brainless in them."

"Are you kidding?" she laughed "I love your pictures! They’re hilarious and you always give me a rockin" body. Maybe they are a little brainless but it helps to get outside our brains sometimes."

"Would you like to be my date for New Year's Eve?" asked Jonny hopefully, "I'm just staying in with Boris to watch New Year's Rockin' Eve with Ryan Seacrest but we'll probably get some cupcakes."

" thanks," said Rosie as she felt some bile push its way to the roof of her mouth. "I said it's helpful to get outside my brain sometimes, but not that far outside my brain."

Jonny sucked up the rejection and he and Boris mingled with their friends into the wee hours and had the time of their lives, although no one could quite figure out why Jonny kept breaking into fits of joyful weeping. But the highlight was saved for the wee hours of the morning when only a handful of partygoers remained, and Snow Mercy finally made an appearance.

No one could figure out why Jonny kept breaking into fits of joyful weeping.

"I was with a group sleeping on the sidewalk all night to show the plight of the homeless at Christmas," she explained in a typical act of altruism. "But I had to stop by and wish you and Boris a Merry Christmas. It was a crazy day. Some plump old guy with a beard was pestering me all morning with private messages, but he finally grew the balls to book a session with me tomorrow at noon. And I won an eBay auction for a pair of boots that actually belonged to Bettie Page!"

Jonny just nodded, unable to speak because of the lump in his throat at actually being able to see his dear friends face to face again.

"I have to go," Snow apologized. "Nobody from my protest group knows that I’ve left and I’m afraid that if they wake up and I’m not there, they"ll think that I’ve been eaten by weasels. But I want to have a long chat and hear everything that’s going on with you. Are you free for a Zoom meeting next week?"

Jonny surprised Snow by reaching out to his friend and wrapping his arms around her in an affectionate hug.

"I have a better idea," he said as he reluctantly pulled away. "Let’s do lunch."

So all was happiness in this universe and the Social Network. Photoshop Rosie and Gomer had successful transplants and lived long and happy lives (although the Cowardly Beast rejected his new nutsack and died on the operating table). Santa Claus embraced his sexual fetishes and became a much jollier person as a result. Professor Morlock finally found some worthy opponents to play Doctor Who Trivial Pursuit with. Facebook Snow Mercy continued to dominate the Social Network (to the delight of her fans) while real-life Snow Mercy won the Nobel Peace Prize for her work in bringing attention to the plight of the homeless. Donald Trump was imprisoned for tax fraud and his entire family became penniless. Covid-19 was permanently wiped off the face of the earth when Tom Ford created a fashion sensation making face masks a must-wear with any ensemble. And everyone in the world, both in our universe and the Social Network, had the best Christmas ever.

But happiest of all were Jonny and Boris. As they watched the last stragglers at the party asleep on the floors or violently hurling their guts out from drinking too much hard lemonade, their hearts each swelled with pride at knowing they played a part in bringing the world back to normal. So with a knowing wink to each other, they each got out their smart phones and logged onto Facebook to see what was going on with everybody.

And happiness to you, dear friend. Whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah (which, we remind you. Is over a full week before Christmas) or nothing at all, we wish you the best Yuletide you can make of it in the current medical emergency and hope that you find a means to reach out with joy to the many people who cherish you.

And know that you always have a loving friend in Jonny M.



Conceived by

Jonny M.

Written by
Jonny M.
(and a team of ghostwriters)

Illustrated by
Jonny M.

Costume Design
Google Images

Best Boy

Anything in Jonny's refrigerator with an expiration date of 2010 or later


Mary Ann Summers
Linda Ronstadt
Jonny M.
Wonder Woman
Fan taking picture
Professor Morlock
Fresh head
Fresh head
Fresh head
Rosie DeCandia
Lollipop Guild Representative
Lollipop Guild Representative
Lullaby League Singer
Snow Mercy
Mara Marini
Mayor of Muncheesland
Woman on swing
Robin Greenspan
Lacie Harmon
Dude on ladder
Winston's angel
Glenn T. Simon
Bro Joe
Grizzly Bear
Photoshop Rosie
Accordion dude
Tall fiddler
Swanky singer
MAGA attacked by Boris
Sheriff Buford T. Racist
Angry MAGA
Angry MAGA
MAGA in Trump shirt
Angry MAGA
Sexy Russian bot
Sex symbol on poster
The Cowardly Beast

Bo Barah
Dawn Wells
Lynda Carter
Amy Ball
Jesse Merlin
Jeff Simon
Crispy Bacon
Jason Fogelson
Braddon Medelson
Frances Fisher
Donna Susskind
Harmony Sanchez
Lisa Glass
Robin Greenspan
Jordan Eckerling
Lacie Harmon
Alexandris Ocasio-Cortez
Roses Pritchard
Sara J. Stuckey
French Stewart
Dan E. Campbell
Amanda James
Barry Sanders
Genelle Izumi
Rob Vestal
Rosanna De Candia
Thomas Ashworth
James Cleveland
Jesse Merlin
Davis Eck
Jerry Winsett
David Pinion
Tim Storms
Adam Lindsey
Steve B. Green
Liesel Hanson
Raquel Welch
Eddie Frierson
Graham Skipper
Rene St. Peter
Mark Ringer
Edmund Gwenn
Julie Carruthers
Natasha Troop
Megan Simon
Glenn Simon
Jesse Merlin
Dawn Wells
Robin Greenspan
Lynda Carter
Penelope Psatliras
MZ Runyan
Bro Joe
Sophie B. Barkins



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