The Opinion "the War in Afghanistan is different from the War on Christmas" has flown into a craggy mountainside and died, the impact crushing the sleigh and scattering the contents willy-nilly, the various guns and rocket launchers broken to pieces across the barren rocks that roll down to the pock-marked valley below. Amid the cacophony of AK-47s and surface-to-air missiles, one can just make out the muffled cries for aid from the tiny Military Industrial Complex Elves as they spend the last full measure of their devotion, beyond all hope and charity, in the bitter cold of a despairing world. The Opinion was believed to be three and a half years old.
Raised among the candy cane poppy fields of North Kantstanditstan, the Opinion lived an idyllic childhood gathering tinsel and ornaments and holly and improvised explosive devices to play with, delighting in the colors and banners and deafening explosions, each in due course. Baby Jesus, acting as the One True Manager of the Opinion, was spotted as he crawled into an armored Humvee near Kabul, wherein he drove off for some unknown destination, leaving no instructions for a successor. Who will be our new Field General? Will he (or she) run a steady assault on our enemies, or just throw 30,000 additional Hail Marys until the reindeer are replaced by drones? Stay tuned!
Family of the Opinion have asked that in lieu of flowers everyone blow shit up and then drink massive amounts of alcohol to deaden what isn't already dead. The key to enlightenment is self-medication and violence, and the road to salvation is heavily guarded. After the service there will be a brief explosion, followed by eternal darkness. Happy Holidays!
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