Xmas and X-tacy.

Decorous reader, doubtless you contemplate Christmas as a prescribed and definite date indicated by cabalistic characters on a calendar; bootless, you consider the season of salubrity in terms of Time; and this, unfortunate reader, is where you go for a skate on the orange peel of error, rumpling your reason and lacerating your logic, for Christmas dwells more in the consciousness than on the calendar. It is a psychological sensation which embrocates the emotional emanations and metamorphoses the metaphysical millinery, causing the cry of cankerous Care and the dictates of dismal Duty to gurgle and gasp in the loud-shrieker of daily endeavour.