This is the story of how I became worse than the Grinch. Not by stealing presents, mind you—I hold myself to a higher standard of villainy. No, my crime was of a more philosophical nature, and it all started with my nephew, Timothy, and his fifth-grade Christmas pageant.

I was roped into attending on account of my sister, Sarah, who claimed it would “do me good.” She said my heart was two sizes too small, which is a medical condition I’m fairly sure doesn’t exist. So, I went, folding my long self into a child-sized chair, prepared for an hour of tolerable boredom.

The pageant was what you’d expect: shepherds in bathrobes, wise men following a flashlight-star, and a donkey played by two boys who couldn’t agree on a direction. And then came Timothy’s big moment. He wasn’t a shepherd or a king. He was the Official Pageant Fact-Checker, a role he invented himself.

The narrator, little Mary Ellen, spoke into a tinny microphone: “And the little baby Jesus was born in a stable, surrounded by friendly, smiling animals.”

Timothy, from the front row, yelled, “Historically dubious! Primary sources on livestock emotional states are nonexistent!”

A ripple of uncomfortable laughter. Elizabeth Ellen plowed on. “…and the three wise kings brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”

Timothy stood up, holding a notepad. “Citation needed! The Gospel of Matthew just says ‘Magi from the East.’ It doesn’t specify three, and it definitely doesn’t call them kings! This is a later tradition, possibly to enhance the narrative!”

You could have heard a pin drop. Then, from the pew behind me, a voice whispered, “That’s Barbara’s boy. The one who reads the encyclopedia for fun.”

I should have been mortified. But a strange, wicked pride swelled in my chest. The boy wasn’t being rude; he was being accurate. He was a lone voice of reason in a sea of sentimental fiction!

After the show, I found him being lectured by a furious Mrs. Greenleaf, the pageant director. “…completely ruined the spirit of the thing, Timothy!”

I laid a hand on my nephew’s shoulder. “Madam,” I said, in my best courtroom voice. “The boy was merely exercising intellectual rigor. Are you suggesting we prioritize ‘spirit’ over verifiable fact?”

Timothy looked up at me as if I’d just handed him a sword.

That’s when my descent began. That evening, at the family dinner, I saw my opening. My brother-in-law, Bill, was carving the ham. “A real Christmas feast!” he boomed.

“Actually, Bill,” I said, sipping my cider. “The domesticated pig, Sus scrofa domesticus, is not native to the Levant. A ‘real’ feast in first-century Bethlehem would likely have featured goat. And probably a lot less brown sugar.”

Bill’s carving knife hovered in mid-air.

When my aunt Clara started singing “Silent Night,” I gently pointed out that the original, “Stille Nacht,” was written in 1818 in Austria, making it entirely anachronistic to the event it describes. The singing died in her throat.

I was on a roll. I questioned the reindeer’s migratory patterns, the aerodynamic feasibility of a laden sleigh, and the troubling economic implications of an elf-based, non-unionized labor force. I was a one-man sleighbell, ringing with pedantic doom.

By the time the fruit cake was served, I had single-handedly dismantled the entire holiday. The children were crying. The adults were staring into their eggnog as if it contained the bleak answers to the universe. The tree lights seemed to flicker with a newfound irony.

My sister finally cornered me by the coatrack. Her eyes were not filled with Christmas cheer. “You,” she hissed. “The Grinch stole things. You’ve stolen the joy. You’ve made everyone feel stupid for being happy.”

And that’s when I saw it. Timothy was sitting alone on the stairs, looking miserable. He’d seen his hero, the champion of facts, become the monster who ruined fruit cake. I had taken his delightful quirk and turned it into a weapon.

So, you see, the Grinch just took their tinsel and toys. He gave it all back once he learned his lesson. But the damage I did was to the warm, silly, and utterly necessary stories we tell ourselves to get through the winter. You can’t wrap that back up and put it under a tree. I had become, indisputably, worse than the Grinch. And the worst part? I had all the citations to prove it.

*****

And, you know, with Christmas just around the corner, I shouldn’t neglect the obligatory shameless self-promotion. New Yesterdays, a very nice Christmas stocking stuffer, is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon. Get yours today!