Once upon a time (back when everybody thought sending out these stupid cards was just a moronic phase I was going through), there was a peaceful little island tucked away in the South Seas called Koffupsumb Isle. It was a tropical paradise with clear blue waters, white sand, and coconuts the size of bowling balls that would take out an average of two islanders unlucky enough to be standing under the ripened fruit every new moon.

Koffupsumb Isle was inhabited by the Hunglowli tribe, so-called because of their ancient ritual of strapping all newborn males’ schvantzes to a six-foot long board. By the time they were sixteen, Hunglowli men could star in a series of tribal-produced porno films that netted the Hunglowlis over ten million bucks a year off their Internet site alone. They were a happy breed, not only by virtue of their ponderous wealth and even more ponderous doohickeys, but because they had found spiritual enlightenment generations before when an Australian missionary ventured to their shores to give the good news about the New Testament. The holy man didn’t get very far into his spiel before he was turned into stew by the cannibalistic Hunglowlis, but one thing he did manage to impart to the tribesmen before he was covered in bernaise sauce was the story of Christmas.

The Hunglowlis loved Christmas! Every year when the holiday season rolled around, the tribal elders would throw a huge festival where the villagers would decorate the Christmas coconut tree, exchange lavish gifts like designer loin cloths and diamond studded leis, and take part in a massive feast of fresh pineapples, papayas, and a fat guy flown in fresh from New Zealand. But the highlight of every Yuletide was when the elders would throw a virgin into the nearby Mt. Meenow volcano to appease the great volcano god Kummoniwannalaya, giving the tribe good luck and prosperity for all the year.

The Hunglowlis began preparations for the festival with great excitement, but as Christmas loomed closer, the tribe realized that an essential element of the celebration was missing. The Hunglowlis’ gigantic protuberances and lax statutory rape laws had depleted Koffupsumb Isle’s supply of virgins. Kummoniwannalaya would be denied his sacrifice! The Hunglowlis despaired, and the tribal elders called a meeting.

“Without Kummoniwannalaya receiving his Christmas sacrifice,” said Chief Lickimee, the tribal leader who won his job by virtue of his epic peter that Hunglowli children frequently hid under for shade in the summer months, “the Island will suffer a year of plague and famine. The law book is quite clear on this point, just between the sections on punishments for using bananas for unnatural purposes and health specifications for selling explorer meat retail. But the law book does say that the sacrifice doesn’t have to be a virgin. Just somebody who hasn’t gotten any poon in living memory. Now, where can we find somebody who hasn’t gotten laid in a long, long time?”

At about this time, a young muse named Jonny M. was being fired from his job as opening act for Don Ho. The noble muse had been hired as a fire breather, but years of alcohol intake had made his breath so flammable that one puff on the torch sent out a massive flame that scorched the singer’s groin, forcing him to give a rendition of Tiny Bubbles a full two octaves higher than normal. As he watched his former boss being rushed to a nearby skin graft clinic, Jonny ruefully opened a copy of Backstage/South Seas. His eye was immediately drawn to an ad reading “Earn good money while you practice your craft! Human sacrifice wanted!”

Christmas was looming, and the islanders despaired. No one had come forward to answer their ad except for a weirdo who saw their post on alt.sexuality.fetish.human sacrifice. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of bending over to tie his shoe near one of the many gay monkeys that lived in the coconut trees, making him useless as a sacrifice but a tasty midday snack for the Hunglowli youth. But as the tribespeople sadly concluded that their Christmas ritual would be ruined and their island’s future facing certain total destruction, Jonny M.’s kayak appeared from out of the surf and onto the white beach of Koffupsumb Isle.

“Hi, folks,” smiled Jonny as he stepped out of the kayak and shook the vomit off his feet that was the residual of his chronic seasickness. “I hear you’re casting for some kind of a perverted Christmas pageant. If you’ve ever read any of these stupid cards in the past, you’ll realize that I’m just the guy!”

The Hunglowli stared in wonderment at Jonny, salivating at the lean meat clinging to his geeklike frame. They were about to rush him and throw him into a pot when Chief Lickimee took a close look in the muse’s eyes. One look at the tense expression carved into Jonny’s face and his habit of absentmindedly touching his crotch as he talked made the tribal elder realize that he had found his man. Lickimee dropkicked a container of meat tenderizer out of the witch doctor’s hand and warmly put his arm around the handsome muse. Jonny attempted to respond to the chieftain’s gesture, but was blocked by Lickimee’s massive pecker.

“I see we’ve got the same writers cranking out this story as usual,” said Jonny contemptuously, but Chief Lickimee seemed to pay no notice. The chieftain tightened his grasp around the muse and silently led him to the top of the volatile Mt. Meenow.

The pair walked for hours to the mouth of the volcano, the villagers following stoically behind. The noble muse tried incessantly to engage the chief in conversation, but Lickimee said nothing, listening only for tidbits about Jonny’s sexual history. As Jonny began listing his favorite pickup lines at parties, the villagers knew that Kummoniwannalaya would be more delighted with this year’s sacrifice than any other.

“...So I bought the inflatable love doll,” said Jonny, explaining to the chief about his latest date, “but I felt guilty about just taking it bed, so I thought I’d take it out to dinner first. My mistake was trying to impress it by lighting the flambé myself, and the thing went up in flames like a book of matches, but you know how women are. Hey, what a view!”

The muse stared in wonderment at the spectacular view as the party reached the mountaintop, but Lickimee and the tribespeople paid no notice, concentrating instead on a strangely hypnotic chant into the smoky mouth of the volcano. Jonny rued not bringing his tape recorder, figuring that if the Gregorian Monks could record a best seller, he could make a mint off of a CD of these clowns. But just as the muse was about to suggest his money making scheme to the Hunglowlis, he found himself being dragged to the fiery entrance by the savages.

“Hey, what gives?” screamed the muse as he felt a flaming ember jump out of the volcano mouth and into his pants. “Listen, I’ll give you full creative control on the album! I only want a 2% cut and have Sheryl Crow be my date at the MTV Awards!”

The noble muse’s heart leapt to his throat as he felt himself being thrown into the flaming abyss of the blazing mountain. Jonny saw his life flash before his eyes as he descended mile after mile into its fiery bowels, fast-forwarding past his junior high school years and a disastrous relationship he had while performing The Alchemist. Just as the muse was about to relive his triumphant performance as a guy who divorced his wife to marry a cardboard cutout of Xena, Warrior Princess on The Jerry Springer Show, he came crashing to the volcano’s rocky floor. He looked up to behold the terrifying visage of the lord of the mountain, the volcano god Kummoniwannalaya.

“Uh, Merry Christmas,” groaned Jonny, trying to bring this stupid story back on track. “Listen, do you have any Ben Gay? I just fell two miles onto a rock floor and I’m a little sore.”

“Merry Christmas,” replied the island deity with a devilish grin. “I see the villagers have remembered my annual sacrifice of a virgin.”

“Hey, I’m not a virgin,” replied Jonny testily. “I’m just going through a slow period.”

“Yeah, right,” replied the unimpressed volcano god, trying to choke back the stench of the muse’s overpowering High Karate cologne. “That’s what they all say. Now, follow me, it’s time for the Christmas feast.”

The muse licked his lips, figuring that a turkey drumstick and some pumpkin pie would be just the thing to take his mind off his fractured spine. But when he got to Kummoniwannalaya’s table, his eyes grew wide in terror. Resting frozen in giant ice cube trays, wooden sticks plunged into their frosty skulls, were the icy bodies of all the sacrifices that had been offered to the island god for generations.

“Virgin pops,” said the island god with a greedy smile. “My Christmas specialty! Once I get you frozen and stick a tongue depressor in you, I’ll finally have enough for a proper feast!”

“This is what you’ve been collecting these people for,” asked Jonny in horror. “To freeze them and eat them? I thought it was just a hobby, like collecting stamps or marital aids. This is sick!”

“Spare me your moralizing!” thundered back the island god. “I live in a freaking volcano! It’s hot as hell in here! The only thing that cools me off is sucking on a nice frozen virgin pop, and if the villagers don’t want my wrath, they better keep `em coming! Now get in the ice cube tray; I want you frozen with a stick in your head by the time the Howard Stern pay-per-view Christmas special comes on.”

“Is that all that Christmas is to you?” replied the pompous muse. “A time to get the tokens that please you, or you’ll throw a tantrum like a spoiled child? At this special time of year we give presents to one another to show our love and affection. Whether they be given to signify Christmas or Hanukkah, these are gifts that are chosen with care to make a statement about how individuals feel about each other. Your greed has turned this marvelous ritual into nothing but a way to fuel your vile selfishness on this special day of days. Shame on you! I say shame!”

Kummoniwannalaya’s face turned into a twisted mask of rage. As the island god slowly approached the muse, Jonny wished he could keep his opinions to himself once in a while. The deity raised the jagged edge of the Popsicle stick to the muse’s pencil neck as the smoke from the volcano’s embers ominously shrouded over them...

The Hunglowlis stared at Mt. Meenow in despair. Instead of appeasing Kummoniwannalaya, their sacrifice appeared to anger the island god. They could feel the volcano begin to rumble, as billows of black fumes came pouring out of the mouth of the fiery mountain.

“I guess that skinny geek was getting a little more than we thought,” lamented Chief Lickimee. “I wonder if it’s too late to look for a virgin at a Star Trek convention?”

The question was answered before the words finished leaving his mouth as the volcano erupted into a towering geyser of ash and lava. The Hunglowlis scrambled to save their village, but were amazed to see the deadly lava make a trail around their community, as if by divine will. Lickimee tried to make some sense out of this strange sight when he was astonished to behold the noble muse Jonny M. making his way through the jungle path, followed by all the virgin sacrifices and the great god Kummoniwannalaya! The Hunglowlis brushed their massive members to the side and fell to the ground at the sight of their deity.

“Oh Great Kummoniwannalaya,” said Lickimee, who was having great difficulty lying on his stomach. “How have we displeased you?” Were our tokens insufficient? Why have you displayed your wrath by erupting the great volcano?”

“Arise, my friend,” beamed the island god while helping up his well hung subject. “Arise. Your gifts have pleased me well. But upon reflection, I realized that I had come to expect these presents not as a token of your affection, but merely as something you handed over out of obligation. And a gift without love has no real meaning. Therefore I have come to you to say that I will grant you fair weather this year not because of some vulgar trade-off, but as a show of affection for the loyalty and faith you have shown me over the milleniums.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Lickimee, brushing off his epic pecker. “If you’re not displeased with us, why did the volcano go off?”

“Why, to thaw out the virgins, of course,” said Kummoniwannalaya. “I couldn’t very well bring them back to you frozen.”

“The real bitch was getting the sticks out of their heads,” said Jonny, holding up a handful of bloody handles. “Don’t ask them to do any long division for a while.”

With that, a mighty cheer arose from the Hunglowli. Chief Lickimee took center stage to address his people.

“My friends, this will be the best Christmas Koffupsumb Isle ever had,” proclaimed the chief. “To celebrate, I will have my cook kill off that fat explorer I’ve been saving and we shall have the best holiday feast ever!”

“Explain to me something,” broke in Jonny M. “What is it with you guys and cannibalism? What is the big appeal about eating people?”

“Why, for protein, of course,” replied Lickimee patronizingly. “With physiques like ours, the Hunglowlis need meat to promote muscle density and plenty of it!”

“But what about all the pigs and cows and chickens I see running all over the place?” responded the muse.

“You can eat those things?” replied the chief in astonishment. “I always assumed they could only be counted on to make fertilizer and provide ear-splitting screams with their noisy lovemaking. This is great! Somebody break out the Hibachi. This will be a feast to end all feasts!”

So all was happiness on Koffupsumb Isle. The Hunglowlis gave up cannibalism and subsisted on regular deliveries from Hickory Farms. Kummoniwannalaya had air conditioning installed in Mt. Meenow, and gave the villagers fair weather and asked only loving friendship and a holiday fruitcake in return. Chief Lickimee was named “Sexiest Man Alive” by People Magazine. The virgins had such a good time deflowering each other that none of them noticed their slurred speech or diminished mental capacity. And everyone on Koffupsumb Isle, young and old, had the merriest Christmas ever.

But happiest of all was Jonny M. As he looked around at the Hunglowlis celebrating, he felt a special warmth in knowing that he had been part of making it happen. So, giving a salute of goodbye to his newfound friends, he jumped in his kayak and paddled off into the sunset, confidant that the Hunglowli schlong-stretching board he was given by the tribe would make his lonely Christmases a thing of the past.

And Happy Holidays to you, my friend. Whether you’re celebrating Christmas or Hanukkah, or merely observing the holiday season with a bonfire of these incredibly pornographic and offensive Christmas cards, know that you always have a faithful and loving friend in Jonny M.

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