Our story begins on Christmas Eve in a small but well-appointed Boston townhouse…


Okay, we’ve sung “The Friendly Beasts,” turned the last page of the advent calendar, sprinkled reindeer feed all over the roof…


And I painted my junk green and ran around the block wearing nothing but a Grinch mask.


That leaves just one final Christmas tradition, roomie. The exchanging of the gifts!


My favorite part. For you, Mr. E, I’ve got a rare vinyl copy of Shaun Cassidy’s ill-fated 1980 foray into new wave–the Todd Rundgren-produced Wasp, featuring Shaun’s unfortunate cover of “Rebel, Rebel.”


ZOMG I JUST MISSED OUT ON THIS LAST WEEK ON E-BAY!


Well, who do you think outbid you, buddy? “DemonPenis666″ clearly planned to make his roommate’s Christmas dreams come true when he won that particular auction.


You’re the best, Dustin. Oh, and for you–sixteen hours of Swedish zoologist porn.


It… it’s like you read the contents of my mind and wrapped it up in a box.


Merry Christmas, buddy.


Merry Christmas to you, too, you oft-injured galoot of a pal.


Hold on a second.


Hey, Carl! You’ve received probably the greatest Christmas gift of them all! Getting to stay in our luxury townhouse rent free until the season starts!


Er, although the “free” part of that doesn’t extend to booze. We trust you’ll respect the sanctity of our private stock.


That’s all well and good. What concerns me is all this talk of Christmas. In my house, we celebrate Kwanzaa, and as your guest, I’d ask that you allow me to observe the holiday in my own way.


How’s that and please tell me it doesn’t involve Blue Oyster Cult music.


It doesn’t, but I will be donning the traditional kente and preparing a bounty of fresh fruits and corn.


Fruit? Man, everybody knows Christmas is about turkey and roast beef. It was in the Bible and shit.


That’s your holiday. We’re teammates, now. We have to broaden our horizons. That’s why I also invited Adrian over to help us celebrate.


Hello. And happy solstice to you all.


“Solstice”? I thought that was just something for Dave Matthews fans. That shit’s real?


I don’t think we can accommodate all this stuff. I mean, we’ve got one tree already…


The tree is cool. I also brought a Yule log and some bells to ring.


And I’ve got a menorah to add to the mix.


Youk!? For f$%k’s sake, man, we can’t celebrate Hanukkah, too.


Why not? I even went out of my way to buy you guys a gift–the entire series of “Amen” on DVD. But I’ll assume, in true “Gift of the Magi” fashion, that you sold your DVD player to get me a fancy present and I’ll simply pocket these treasures for myself. Cool?


I’m fine with it.


Josh? What the hell are you doing here?


I’ve actually been here since Thanksgiving. But you haven’t noticed. Because I’m stealth.


Well you might as well tell us what you want to do. Everybody else has chimed in.


What I want to do? Uh. I’ll probably load the pick-up with Moosehead and troll the streets of downtown Boston looking for some inebriated college girls. Then I’ll use my “fake arm cast and sofa” trick to get ‘em into my truck and lock the doors and tell ‘em they can scream as loud as they want but my 2,000 amp stereo will be cranking Toby Keith at ridiculously high volumes so no one will hear ‘em. Then we’ll all drive out into the woods, I’ll light some candles and put on the celebratory grizzy bear skin and maybe untie the girls if they promise to gyrate in time with the music or at least not make a run for the ranger’s office. Then we’ll procure some animal blood and wait for the rapture.


BADASS! What freakin’ holiday is that called?


Holiday? That’s just a typical Saturday night for me, motherf#$ker.


And so, the teammates laughed and, terrified that Josh might be “packin’”, they agreed that the true spirit of the holidays comes from being tolerant of others. Especially your teammates.


Great. Now how ‘bout puttin’ on those f#$kin’ DVDs?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CAVEAT: The preceding post was presented for purely (and allegedly) humorous purposes. I have no bloody idea what holidays/religions the players embrace. Nor do I give a damn, so long as they whip New York’s ass.