The Crunch Who X'd Christmas

ONCE UPON A TROUBLED TIME, there was a Crunch (distant cousin of a Grinch) who with malice of no thought kept poking an X into Christmas, like so: Christ(X)mas!
X-mas Crunch really, truly thought of himself as a goody thing-a-mabob, a model holiday hymn-sing-along-a-mabob. (On church Sundays, marching-band Mondays, tamborine Tuesdays and On-Your-Knees Fridays, he was both.) Yet, because of brainpan crosswiring, he vibed on bad news, bad times and "bad" (non-Crunchable) people.
Crunch got his jingle jollies by minding everybody else's business but his own. Poke about here. Snoop about there. X! X! X! Tsk! Tsk! Tsk!
For whatever reason of Broadcastanoia (be charitable: blame Crunchianity Tele-scandalists) Crunch was happiest when being persecuted for his "I'm OK, you're not OK" opinions and attitudes. Opinions absorbed by osmosis from Crunchs past tense. Attitudes borrowed from centuries gone sweet bye and bye.
Because Crunch was outwardly happy, but inwardly stuck in this crazy glue world, he liked nothing better than cloning. Spreading DNA by word, mouth and deed into more and more baloony, loony-toony Crunchs, who repeat the process. Leading to inflated security in numbers. Ad infinitum. (Oh, yes. DNA. Determined Nincompoop Airheads.)
Yes, it seems at times in this beleaguered Land of the Formerly Free, DNA Crunchs do, yes really do, do multiply everywhere, behaving like noisy, squinty-eyed, preachy, parroting, wind-up elves, ringing tinkely brasses, sounding like off key cymbals on busy city street corners.
You can usually spot a Crunch from 10/31 to 12/31 (in the U.S. of A. Christmas Season officially begins with Halloween), because Crunchs will ONLY say, greet, or shout out Merry Christmas! Never, no never, Happy Holidays! (Unless there's a big Jewish discount involved.)
Fact is, an honest-to-God, died-in-the-lamb's-wool Crunch who's guilty of X-masing will never wish anybody Happy Hanukkah, Radiant Kwanzaa, Memorable Ramadan, or – goodness, gracious, no way! – Great Buddha's Blessed Benediction. The closest a Crunch comes to it is a group password – wink, wink, wink – "Have a Blessed Day."
Crunchs, so busy zealously X-ing, are, as might be expected, territorial. Crunchs need to clone, clone, clone. (Repeat, repeat the joyful sound.) So, whatever you do, my non-Crunchable friends, unless you're very, very brave, don't ask an elected official to put up a Menorah at City Hall.
And don't ever sing in Sunday School, "I Saw Momma Kissing Santa." Even if she did. (And more.)
Crunchs think government property's ONLY for displaying balsa-wood creches, papier-mache shepherds, plaster sheep, rhinestone magi and – lest, you all forget – smiling, blue-eyed Babies Jesus (too young to protest), exiled, teenage Marys, and non-carpenter's-union, along-for-the-ride, sadly dirt-poor, step-dad Josephs.
(Note: The Crunch equivalent of Miss Manners – Crunch Kringle – says Ten Commandments may be tastefully displayed on public property 365 days a year, with or without klieg lights.)
But for Heaven's sake, please watch out. Crunchs who X-out smile a lot. Shake hands a lot. Slap backs a lot. In spite of End Times for Crunchs, the Rapture around the corner. In spite of their motto, "You better be good; you better watch out (OR ELSE!)," even for Crunchs it's the season to make, er, uh, be merry.
Yes, says Crunch Kringle. Enjoy yourself. It's later than you non-think. Time for Hot Toddies. (Non-alcoholic.) Mistletoe. (Kiss, don't fondle – unless you're – tee, hee, hee – legally wed. And straight.) Gift giving. ("The Us-Only Bible." A real plus. "The DaVinci Code." No way.) Hey! Non-Crunchers get stuffed!
Yea, verily, non-Crunchers be forewarned! Crunchs not only put an X in Xmas. They cross out gay. X-GAY! (Charitably said: their ever-loving spellcheck's broke. It's enough to make you cringe.)