Happy Birthday, Jesus!

  Lately I've noticed most people forget the real reason we have Christmas in the first place. Santa didn't start Christmas, you know. Jesus did, and God, and Mary, and if you don't like me saying that I don't want you reading my blog anyway. 
  It all started when Mary (who was, like, thirteen or fourteen, by the way, when it all Went Down) got a visit from Gabriel, and then Joseph had a dream where an angel told him to name the baby Jesus. Or, if you prefer, Joseph was walking across his lawn and he stepped on a rake he had left lying around and it came up and hit him in the face and he screamed "Jesus Christ!" 'cause, you know, it hurts when you get hit in the face with a rake, stepfather to the Son of God or not. 
  And then Mary and Joseph went to Bethlehem to be counted and taxed, and while they were there it was like Wal-Mart on Black Friday or the beach on Memorial Day--no room anywhere, even for the Mother of God (and no, I'm not going into that). So they stayed in a barn. I'm surprised Mary didn't catch an infection and, like, die. Animals live in stables. They pee and stuff in there. Ew. 
  I just wanted to remind you of this stuff. Mary had Jesus in a stable and neither died of infection. Truly a miracle. 
  Happy birthday, Jesus! I won't ask how old you are. That's rude. I'll give you this cake instead.