Merry Christmas from Shiny Red Nothing!

  

Seasons greetings, and Hail Satan!

As you all know, (REDACTED A) was discovered draped in black robes, sacrificing neighborhood cats with her book club in an effort to summon a (minor) demon who would sway the results of Golden Bachelor’s television finale for them. A far rightwing mother whose child attends the school where (REDACTED A) works found out about it and blew it all out of proportion before spreading the news and her venomous rhetoric amongst all of her friends named Karen.

Satanic counselor this. Liberal agenda that.

One moment we’re relaxing on our couch, reading articles on our phones like “The Top Three Reasons For Ron DeSantis’ Chronic ED,” and the next thing we know, we’re sanitizing our social media profiles and deleting all of our favorite Aleister Crowley memes. While a throng of pitchfork wielding Karens gathered outside of our home with their radical bibledroid husbands, we prayed to anyone who might listen (except you, Karen) to save us from the wrath of those big-haired puritans. 

In a shocking turn of events, the federal government, which has more than a few Karens in its employ, offered us an escape and jobs! Apparently, there’s a shortage of school counselors and dental office managers on the US moon colony, so we were offered free passage there. Six months later, here we are on the moon with a bunch of our fellow heathens. Fast friends were made.

(REDACTED B) is doing great! She has joined the Lunar Choir and has busied herself learning the complex nasal whistling and bubbling noises that comprise most Martian Christmas Carols from the 1990s. Her boyfriend’s Martian too. (REDACTED A) and I are still uncomfortable with his drippy tentacles and awkward psychic communication, but (REDACTED B) seems happy. 

(REDACTED C) invested in Lunar Vaseline before we left Earth and is now the youngest Yom-Num farmer this side of Uranus. However, his maturity and financial savvy made him a prime candidate for the Spring ritual sacrifice atop the Mare Imbrium Ice Volcano, so he’s currently hiding in our sub-basement crawlspace, biding his time until an alternate sacrificial victim is chosen. We installed a hot dog chute from our kitchen to his Lego littered lair, and he’s learned to douse the rocks for Gatorade when he’s thirsty. He’ll be fine! We’re not worried, and you shouldn’t be either. 

Great news: with the Golden Bachelor’s finale in the bag (with thanks to Yungirdian the Vulgar of the 7th Level of Hell), the Karens have all been mind-wiped, and it’s safe for us to return home to Earth again. Well, return home again, of course, when it’s safe for (REDACTED C) to travel again, and (REDACTED B)’s boyfriend gets his travel visa, which has been tied up in red tape (and is probably quite drippy). With luck, we’ll all see you next year.

Lock up your cats!

Jingle jingle,

Shiny Red Nothing & Family