He removes the trays of freshly baked scalding gingerbread men and drops them on the stovetop. He must make haste before they burn and get hard…

Hard?

Father Creed goes *bleh!* He doesn’t like that word, hard. And why wouldn’t he? The word “hard” makes people snicker, their minds always drifting away with the crassest interpretation…

Father Creed would much rather think of sweet words and the sweetest interpretations of such sweet words. After all, it’s almost Christmas.

He should be thinking of Santa’s Workshop, the elves making toys, and the reindeer being tethered to the sleigh. All the while, the big man himself, Santa, sitting by a warm fire with his loving wife, Mrs. Claus, as she knits stockings for fireplaces…

Such a sweet, kind woman…Mrs. Claus…teasing Santa about hogging all the milk and cookies for himself…

…and why should the greedy fatso Santa Claus get all the milk and cookies anyway? She’s a good wife. She works hard, too…yeah…fondling Santa’s lap…yeah…looking for that hard, thick bottle…yeah…begging for some milk...

Oh, if she was a good girl this year, then the “Mrs.” should get lots of milk straight from the Tannenbaum tap…

…Father Creed feels a silly little tingle in his ever-getting tighter silly priest trousers…

Father Creed shakes his head to shake away the inappropriate thoughts of sticky faces and vulgar vulvas that tease him about coming inside where it’s warm instead of all over my poor face~❤️

“It’s all over my face, Percy~❤️”

“It’s all over my face, Percy~❤️”

“What are we gonna do~?”

…the tingling of his trousers makes Father Creed feel giddier….

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! This is a happy kitchen, a Christlike kitchen, a family-friendly kitchen, not a chamber of smut and sin…

Father Creed takes in the smell of the gingerbread men with a soothing snort to clear his sinuses of filthy thoughts. Then, he gives each one a sizzling smooch.

One. The gingerbread man cools.

Two. The gingerbread man cools.

Three. The gingerbread man cools.

Four. The gingerbread man cools.

Five. The gingerbread man cools.

Six. The gingerbread man cools.

Seven. The gingerbread man cools.

Eight. The gingerbread man cools.

Nine. The gingerbread man cools.

Ten. The gingerbread man cools.

Eleven. The gingerbread man cools.

Twelve. The gingerbread man cools.

Thirteen. The gingerbread man cools.

Fourteen. The gingerbread man cools.

Fifteen. The gingerbread man cools.

Sixteen. The gingerbread man cools.

Seventeen. The gingerbread man cools.

Eighteen. The gingerbread man cools.

Nineteen. The gingerbread man cools.

Twenty. The gingerbread man cools.

Twenty-one. The gingerbread man cools.

Twenty-two. The gingerbread man cools.

Twenty-three. The gingerbread man cools.

And twenty-four, for tomorrow, of course. One gingerbread man for each day of Christmas except for Christmas Day.

Father Creed flutters his eyelashes and leans back over by the table with his ice-cold beer.  “I’ll let those cool off, THEN I’ll finally catch that bre-”

*KNOCK KNOCK* goes the front door.

Father Creed gags on the beer and grimaces a goofy grimace. “-ak…”

[Uproarious live studio audience laughter]

Father Creed rolls his eyes, bangs his beer down on the table, smacks his thighs, and gets up as the door continues to pound, pound away. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’...” As the pounding gets louder, he picks up the pace until he can swing the door open. “YES?”

Oh, it’s just Teddy…