You wake up on Christmas morning and go downstairs, full of excitement. Somebody is stealing all of your Christmas presents. It is Jesus. “It’s my birthday, not yours,” he hisses menacingly, then runs away with all your gifts in his arms.
A copy of Tevruden's blog because I don't Trust Like that anymore.
You wake up on Christmas morning and go downstairs, full of excitement. Somebody is stealing all of your Christmas presents. It is Jesus. “It’s my birthday, not yours,” he hisses menacingly, then runs away with all your gifts in his arms.