“You have the right to remain silent night, holy night. Drop the gun, punk.”

Christmas Kopovich was only eight years old when he watched his parents board the alien mothership. It was 1946, one year after World War II. America was relevant and vital. No one. Not those Nazis. Not those Japanese prisoners of war. Not those Italian rabble-rousers. Not those Irish hooligans. Not those Egyptian twerps. They were not going to steal this moment of glory and pride. It was a golden era. America had diverse dreams, and those dreams were happy bubbles, and every loyal American had them in spades.

The orphanage was his next home. The abandoned Christmas focused, then obsessed on being a policeman. In his free time, he would play cops and robbers, cops and Indians, hide-from-the-cop, and good cop/bad cop. His literal preoccupation with the law left him isolated. No one wanted to play with that weird wannabe cop. People were beginning to understand why his parents stranded him. With all this negative energy surrounding him, Christmas ran away. A sad truth that helped shape his path, no one cared.

Nickolai Kopovich immigrated to America in 1936 from the small country of Smoulderia. World War I decimated his town. Nearly a decade later, Smoulderia never saw improvement. It was worse. Poverty and disease overwhelmed the nation, and the chance of survival grew slimmer every day. And let’s be honest, Smoulderians are the worst idiots this world has to offer. They were the scum of a shithole country. His best option for freedom and opportunity was Canada, he settled.

Immediately after arriving in the land of the free, he met his soon-to-be wife, Edith Bunker. It was a classic case of love at first sight. They got married two months later. Had Edith known that Nickolai was a chronic masturbater or a lousy Smoulderian, these events would not have transpired. She wanted a family. Her sheer desire and persistence proved to beat the odds, similar to winning the big jackpot lotto, with her eggs being fertilized by a one in a trillion active sperm cell.

On December 25^th, 1938, Edith gave birth to an abundantly healthy boy. He was born 15 days late. The labor pains nearly killed her. It was as if he didn’t want to leave the womb. He didn’t. Nickolai wanted to honor America for adopting him and give his son a proud American name, something like Paul or Chris. Assuming Chris was short for Christmas, Christmas Carroll Kopovich was born.

Nickolai was, at best, an inattentive father. Between work, the tavern, and the whacking off, there was no energy left to be a husband or dad. Edith, on the other hand, was mesmerized by the fancies of astrology and alien life. After the nonsense and brutality of WWII, she made contact with the aliens after an atomic bomb opened up a communication portal. Complex arrangements led to a meeting near the zone that would eventually be named Area 51 on Christmas Day in 1946. Even though the instructions specifically stated: No kids, Nickolai and Edith brought Christmas in hopes that the aliens would have a change of heart. [FACT CHECK: Aliens do not have hearts to change.]

Christmas watched through teary eyes, the blur of a cigar-shaped spaceship race through the dark blue night. At last, he was alone. He could now let the dominant side of him take over. He could now disregard compassion, empathy, kindness, and logic, and let his me first attitude take over.

In 1959, coincidentally on Christmas Day, Christmas officially became a policeman. He also changed his name to Christmas Cop. Carroll was too gay, and Kopovich, too clunky and foreign. Remember, politically correct merely meant don’t kill your neighbor, and Christmas Cop was a total jerkwad. From that day forth, justice was another word for nothing left to lose. No one ever said, “Long Live Christmas Cop.”

Dominant