>Christmas Heave

>It had all the makings of the best Christmas Eve service ever. From the stage swelled the sounds of guitars, flutes, french horns, cellos, mandolins, a fiddle, and a goat skinned drum. The decorations were costly and impeccable; the singing was flawless. All my favorites were on the roster, from What Child is This to Oh Holy Night. For the first time this season, I was beginning to feel a glimmer of Christmas cheer.

Until someone threw up in the fifth row.

Within minutes, a janitor was rushing down the aisle with a mop and rolling bucket. As a Robert Goulet lookalike crooned I’ll Be Home for Christmas from the stage, the janitor edged his way past audience members to the very center of the row and began trying to clean up the mess. Over and over, he dragged the mop back to his bucket, beneath dozens of expensively-shod feet.

It wasn’t long before an elderly lady seated at the end of the row turned and delicately emptied the contents of her stomach into the janitor’s bucket beside her. Five seats down, a mother carrying a green-faced toddler attempted to push her way out into the aisle; before she could make it, the boy projectile vomited onto a woman in a fur coat seated in front of him.

The woman’s husband jumped up angrily and promptly puked on the feet of the young couple behind him. They obviously were newlyweds- the man tenderly held his wife’s head as she helplessly barfed into her lap.

Before long, half the congregation was getting an unexpected second taste of their holiday lunches. On stage, Goulet abruptly stopped singing and shook his fist.

“I can’t work in these conditions!” he shouted angrily, before storming off into the wings and slipping on the chunky puddle a techie had just left on the floor.

In the audience, banners were ripped from the walls and candles were trampled as the congregation rushed toward every exit. The cacophonous sound of puking rang from every corner. A member of the Greeters’ Committee panicked and pulled the fire alarm, setting off the sprinkler system and prompting hundreds of Santa sweater-wearing matrons to squeal in terror and cover their freshly hot-rolled heads. Backstage, a frantic search was on for the pastor. Finally, his luxury sedan was spotted outside, screeching off into the-

“Honey, are you all right?” my husband whispered beside me. “You look like you don’t feel so good.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, looking around. Ahead of me, the janitor made one last swab and pushed his bucket back up the aisle while the rest of the congregation pretended not to notice.

“I just don’t really like I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” I said, squeezing his hand. “That’s all.”

“Me neither,” he said sympathetically. “I wish they’d get back to the Celtic stuff.”

Fuck, I’m twisted.