Nativity in Olive Drab

Long-time readers have heard the story about the birth of my step-son, Jesus H. Christian, but it's been a long time since I last told it, and I thought it would be nice to turn its telling into a Jesus' General Christmas Season tradition.

It was a little over nine and a half years ago when my wife, OfJoshua, first told me she was pregnant. It came as a big surprise to me. After all, I hadn't been able to perform my husbandly duties for over a year, ever since I first heard that Klinton liked to put his little soldier into ladies' mouths. The very thought that someone would perform such a perverted, un-Republican act, killed the whole concept of sex for me, causing my little soldier to refuse my command to stand at attention except during inopportune times like during wresting matches and gladiator movies. I think that's why the story was leaked in the first place. He wanted god-fearing men to stop procreating naturally.

There could be only one explanation for OfJoshua's pregnancy: immaculate conception. It was a miracle. OfJoshua was chosen by God to be the vessel for our Lord Jesus' second coming.

We were ecstatic. I immediately reached for my CB radio so that I could begin witnessing Our Savior's imminent return. But before I uttered my second "breaker" into the microphone, the Holy Ghost intervened, filling my thoughts with visions of Klinton dressed in the robes and crown of Herrod. The Spirit was telling me that I had to guard the secret of the Second Coming to prevent Klinton from murdering our baby like he murdered Vince Foster and the entire population of Mena, Arkansas.

I asked Of Joshua if she had confided in anyone else knew. She said she'd only told Mr. Garcia, our sad neighbor man. That made sense. He's been distraught since his divorce, so she visits him after dinner every night to cheer him up with scripture readings and old Lou Rawls albums. The news of her pregnancy probably filled him with joy.

So we kept it all very quiet until she gave birth in the early morning hours of December 25, 1997. Unfortunately, it was the year we added Spartan-style wrestling and Sheila the Militia Morale Sheep to our annual Militia Christmas Eve Party and the festivities went a little long, so I missed it. Cletis and Private Jethro gave me a ride home that night. I had my pickup, but I asked them for a ride because I wanted to make sure they understood that what happens at the annual Militia Christmas Eve Party stays at the annual Militia Christmas Eve Party. Obviously, my lecture didn't take. Cletis is still running his mouth off about it. Don't believe a word he tells you. He's a damned liar, and besides, I was drunk.

On our way home, we noticed a bunch of bright lights over at the feed lot and decided to investigate. It turned out to be the headlights of Mr. Garcia's Buick and an old pickup loaded with Basque sheepherders. Both vehicles were parked in a way that illuminated one of the lot's feed troughs.

We approached cautiously, our nerves on edge due to the possibility that Mr. Garcia might be involved in some kind of mutton rustling scheme. Fortunately, that wasn't the case. It wasn't rustlers; it was only Mr. Garcia, my wife, and a new born baby, my baby. Apparently, OfJoshua went into labor on her way home from the movies (movies always cheer up Mr. Garcia).

There was something wrong though. I couldn't quite figure out what it was until Cletis screamed, "Oh my God, General, your baby is a Mexican." It was true, the baby was as brown as chocolate. "That's a disguise," OfJoshua giggled, "so Klinton won't find him." "Of course," I thought, "God, made him brown to protect him."

"It's a boy," Mr. Garcia said proudly, "we will name him Jesus, after me." "That's perfect," I replied. "It gives us plausible deniability. We can call him by his real name and tell everyone it's just a tribute to you." That made OfJoshua and Mr. Garcia so happy they fell down into the manure, laughing.

A week from today, little Jesus will be 9 years old. He's still brown--a bad sign for those of us who worry that Hitlery will be successful in '08--but he's a darn good kid. We haven't seen any miracles yet. I made him try to turn the Kool-Aid into Coors at the Johnson wedding, but nothing happened. We're getting him the Left Behind video game for his birthday, hoping it'll remind him how to destroy whole nations of unbelievers. I'll let you know when he figures it out.