5 That which is earlier than this earth and heaven, before the Asuras and Gods had being,—

What was the golden egg primeval which the waters received where all the Gods were seen together?

6 The waters, they received that golden egg primeval wherein the Gods were gathered all together.

It rested set upon the Unborn’s navel, that One wherein abide all things existing.

7 Ye will not find him who produced these creatures: another thing hath risen up among you.

Enwrapt in misty cloud, with lips that stammer, hymn-chanters wander and are discontented.

RV 10.82.5,6



Twas the night before Christmas and all through the Dome, not a human was sober, this isn’t a poem.


Uoot descends into the Dome on Christmas Eve after partaking in the spirit of Christmas generosity by re-appropriating nearby Christmas decorations.

“Hey man, what the fuhk is that?” said Hoppititia Bopper, looking over at Uoot’s weed station.

While it certainly was not unusual for Uoot to decorate the dome with weed, those decorations usually consisted of braids of pot interwoven with sage grass hung in oriental patterns on the walls or massed in totem poles in the center of the room which depicted the animal tribal leaders of all 17548 indigenous nations of Northwest America. This time it appeared as though Uoot had merely twisted a few strands of an oddly dark strain of marijuana into thick circles, which he then arranged haphazardly with ribbons, baubles, and lights. Hoppititia also noticed that Uoot had used a bucket of children’s chalk (re-appropriated from the local Mormon youth camp) to hand draw smiling stalks of weed with colored balls on them. A few strings of tiny light bulbs drooped in half loops about the wall, as well as circular cut outs of neighbors’ Christmas welcome mats, which Uoot had re-appropriated from nearby doorsteps.

Please note the existence of that snowman.

As Uoot liked to remind others, he never thieved. ‘Theft’ is a term that only has meaning under capitalism and its corresponding value indices based in property. If any act can truly be considered theft, it could only be the very invention of property itself, which, as the Council of Gnomsen say, was “the first wound in the universe” for it “tore asunder the one fabric of the universe by dividing it into alien parts.” It is the very idea of property itself, with its drawing of boundary lines and love of the object in solitude, which replaces non-dualism with solipsistic possession. Property, of whose ultimate symbol is the FENCE, remains just as violent when that fence is picketed and white, as when it is tall and barbed, for it serves to demarcate the bounds of human life whether by containing human life literally, as in the prison, or by imprisoning human living, as in the suburb. Under capitalism the human being is rendered both property and proprietor–an isolated point in a transactional nexus of isolated points relating to one another merely in terms of use, rather than living together as One. In love there is no property. Thus, the only way towards reunification and purpose is the act of re-appropriation, which re-introduces the communal One by negating the negation of property. Just as -1 plus 1 equals 0 –the ONE– the original appropriation (i.e. the invention of property) can be undone by each and every act of re-appropriation. Uoot was suturing the cosmic wound one doormat at a time. The testament to his efforts to restore cosmic harmony draped on the wall in the form of shar shaped cut outs from Mrs. Crumplebottom’s curtains and a welcome mat drawn from the entrance to the the women’s baking quarters at the Church.

After duct taping the last piece of frayed curtain from Mrs. Crumplebottom’s bedroom to the wall, Uoot stared forth at his newly decorated weed wall immobile for twenty minutes before clapping and twirling with joy.

Dude, what the HELL are you doing?” yelled Uticia at Uoot.
“I’m decorating for the holidays,” Uoot replied in a rapid, high pitched voice, while subtly rocking back and forth.
“What holiday?”
“Saturnalia.”
“What the hell is that? Never heard of it.”
“It’s a Christian holiday.”
A chorus of “psst!” and “booooo” mingled with weed choked coughs rang out throughout the Dome as every Gnome simultaneously expressed her or his contempt for all things Christian and Western. Thoriatober even broke from loving-kindness meditation to yell, “Get the FUCK out of here fascist.”


“No, no, man!” yelled Uoot in self-defense. “It’s not like that. This is cool. It’s a holiday about getting free shit and eating.”
A chorus of “fuck yeah” and all its variants including “hell yeah” and “shit yeah” redounded throughout the Dome accompanied by fist bumps, throwing objects into the air, and other common gestures of approval. The only gesture of disapproval was quite mild and came from Xexy who reminded everyone that the concept of a holiday only exists under capitalism since it serves to perpetuate the ideology that conditions free from labor are exceptional and wage slavery the norm.

Uoot continued to advocate for the merits of Christmas–I mean, Saturnalia.
“Not only do you bake a lot. I mean A LOT,” said Uoot, “but the entire centerpiece of the holiday is literally worshipping a gigantic plant. I already installed one in the Dome.”
“Whooooa…” creaked the stoned voice of Uticai.
“Duuuude,” said Narwhell exhaling iridescent bubbles.
“Epic,” said Crangraw.
“How the fuck did the Christians invent this?” asked Ungus. eyes bulging with disbelief.

“They didn’t invent it. They just celebrate it,” replied Uoot.
“Oh,” said Ungus, his eyes sinking back into a red-eyed daze as he poured himself Ginseng Wellness Tea and rolled another joint, “Wait…uhhh…no, nevermind.” For a fraction of a second, Ungus’s prefrontal cortex had activated enough that an fMRI would have registered him as awake as he realized that something did not quite make sense about the Christians celebrating a holiday they didn’t invent, but that faint glimmer of neuronal activation faded as quickly as it arose like the outline of a ship at sea before the dense fog settles in again. Soon enough, Ungus was back to tracing the fractal patterns that danced on the interior of his eyelids in neon splendor as he exhaled a black smoke ring from a DMT-infused blunt.


“Saturnalia is an astrological holiday celebrating the birth of the guru Jesus who was born under the sign of Saturn,” continued Uoot.
“WAIT—hold it a minute,” screamed Uticai, “Saturn is NOT an astrological sign. You have to listen to me. I’m the ONLY one with a degree in astrology in this entire fucking room and I am calling BULLSHIT on this. Jesus sounds like a bill board guru to me.”
“I’m telling you it’s astrology, man. They put a star on the tree and everything. Besides, you got your Ph.D. from Maha Maheeshi Online School for New Age Science. Everyone knows you don’t even have to write a thesis for that shit. You just pay four hundred dollars for the online class and get a certificate mailed to you. Printed on REGULAR printer paper. They didn’t even LAMINATE that shit,” replied Uoot.
“I did write a thesis!” screamed back Uticai, “I cut out every single astrological prediction from the past three months in the Village Post and made a massive collage with it. I even cross-checked the astrological predictions for Virgo from the Village Post and the Village Times and THEY WERE EXACTLY THE FUCKING SAME. In BOTH papers it said Virgo should expect the unexpected. In any case, Saturn is NOT an astrological sign. It’s a planet. So how can Jesus be born under Saturn? Makes no fucking sense. Fake guru.”
“In Christian mythology the star led gurus from all over the world to Jesus when he was born in a barn.”
“Hey, I was born in a barn too!” chirped Goggilisticus, “His parents were hippies. I already like this guy.”
“Yeah, his parents weren’t even married when they had him.”
“But I thought the Christians didn’t believe in free love?”
“Uh….yeah…I’m still trying to figure that one out,” Uoot said, “No wonder this was appropriated from another culture. Probably an indigenous one.”
“Yeah, and then they took out all the real spiritual shit,” said Crangraw, nibbling on a mushroom shaped like Paul Stamets.


“So like…how exactly do they worship plants?” asked Dee with suppressed glee.
“So they, like, gather a fucking massive stalk, like the biggest motherload of pot you’ve ever seen…so big it touches the ceiling,” said Uoot, “I already installed one in the Dome.”
The Gnomes sighed and gasped in awe.
“They do it to lure a super Gnome named Santa who redistributes wealth by teleporting through chimneys.”
“Whoaaaa, holy…fucccckkkk.”
“Does it have to be a chimney or do other house orifices work?” asked Xexy.
“Only chimneys dude. And he leaves the redistributed wealth in gift-wrapped packages under the decked out gigantic tree.”

Inexplicable haze and bubbles emit from the Saturnalia plant.


“Niiiiiiceee….” said Dee.
“But there’s a catch,” said Uoot.
“He’s an undercover cop,” Dee responded.
“No. Something even worse.”
“Oh fuck. I knew this was too good to be true.”
“He judges you.”
“No–” said Dee in a whisper of horror.
“Yes,” said Uoot, “He decides if you’re good or bad by having elves survey your every thought and action waking and sleeping over the course of the previous year.”
“NO,” said Dee, “THAT’S what Terrence McKenna meant by the elves! His words, they must have been a warning. I can hear them now: You pass through a membrane of some sort, and you’re in a place. You’re pushed through, and you see the tykes, as I call them. The self-transforming machine elves that are singing in a hyperdimensional language. They surround you and say, “Welcome, we’re so glad to see you.”
“Yes,” said Uoot, “After Santa gets debriefed by the elves, he writes his judgment down in a book. That’s right. He records his judgment of you. In one word or the other: Nice or naughty. There are only two possible evaluations.”
“That’s not nuanced!” yelled Crangraw.

Dee screamed a primordial scream of terror deeper than the time he smoked Salvia and was absolutely convinced that he was a single fan blade spinning eternally in an alien waiting room. Dee ran in circles about the room screaming imagining Santa’s surveillance elves which Guru Terence witnessed in a DMT vision.

One can run from a bicycle, but one can never run from judgment.

“But cops judge you,” said Xexy, “so Santa could be a cop.”
“No they don’t. The man judges you,” interjected Goggilisticus, ” Cops are just tools of the man who like to kill people in the name of racist capitalism. They have no soul to judge you with. They are driven only by the bloodlust that their creator endowed them with.”
“Right,” said Dee, “Sooooo….when do we smoke the Saturnalia plant?”
“Uh, I don’t think the Christians smoke it,” said Uoot.
“But CAN you?” said Dee. “That’s the important question.”
“….hmmm…they do sorta’ gather around it and sing…which is definitely high as fuck behavior. They also like to put stuff on it. Like shiny lights and food. I’m definitely drawn to shiny objects and food when I smoke soooo…..yeaah maybe you can smoke it?””
“Uh…you absoFUCKINGlutely can” came a high-pitched voice from the corner of the dome, “I’m high as FUCK on Saturnalia plant right now.”
Uoot glanced over to see that in the midst of his explanation about the meaning of Christmas, several members of his audience had ceased listening the instant that Uoot mentioned that a giant plant had been installed in the Dome and dashed off to light the tree on fire and were now happily drawing from a hookah vis a vis a pipe they had stabbed directly into the trunk. Glistening glarbs of tree sap globulated in little bubbles upward as the pine needles left a pleasant scent that made incense so longer necessary.

Thoriatober took a deep drink of coal-black sap-laden smoke from the dead center of the tree: “WHOA YEAH! This is the SHIT! It’s like the life force of this tree shooting straight into mine. Right now I’m riding on a flying carpet made out of the northern lights. Oh God. Holy shit. This divine, iridescent beauty! Shimmering like a divine curtain throughout the universe! Our souls are like those light bulbs and God is the tree pulsating through us and making us glow.”
“Uh, I think the light bulbs on the tree are lit by the electricity, not the tree” said Xexy.
“Whoa whoa I can literally FEEL it with my mind. I can FEEL light by looking at it. I’m touching the northern lights. Oh God, they’re so beautiful. They’re enwrapping me, enveloping me…wrapping me into a present. But I don’t mind. I don’t feel suffocated by this. I feel…this inexplicable joy. I can sense the child’s joy. I exist for that joy. I’m crying with divine anticipation. Guys, guys, I’m having an epiphany right now. I just realized…that we should anticipate death like a present anticipates being opened on Saturnalia–not as a violent disruption, but as an ERUPTION of absolute joy–a movement from solitude and slumber into the embrace of God who smiles upon us with the pure delight of a child.”
“I smiled when I incinerated ants in the playground” said Xexy, “I made a laser from the sun with Mrs. Cornelius’s Jack Daniel’s bottle.”


The glossolalic alien priest did what any good shaman would do upon discovering a new substance portal to the godhead. He immediately ran over to the tree, plucked a fistful of needles from it, drizzled them in sap, and rolled them into blunts which he marketed as “Northern Lights” on the dark web. Uticia strolled over and smoked one of the blunts he had just rolled and was instantly filled with inspiration.
“Guys…” she said…”Let’s summon the super gnome.”

“Summon Santa?” said Thermal skeptically.
“Yeah, let’s gather around the tree like Christians do and manifest him RIGHT THE FUCK NOW.”

As the glossolalic alien priest was engaging in non-legal business transactions, the gnomes gathered around the massive tree in the center of the room, lit it on fire, and drew a deep breath from the hookah infused leaves before forming a meditation circle around the Saturnalia tree.


Uticia inhaled deeply while swinging both arms into an arc over her head. Then, muttering the sacred gnome incantation, she clasped her palms together before her chest and began her visualization of Santa until Ulfer poked her in the head.
“GOD DAMN IT!”
Uticia slammed to the ground, her connection to hyperdimensional space violently disrupted.
“Why the fuck did you do that?” yelled Uticia.
“Yeah man you disrupted the group manifestation,” said Thermal.
“Yeah, that was NOT cool,” said Uoot, “Okay….hold off everyone….This meditation circle is now officially a restorative justice circle.”
“OH the fuck no it isn’t,” said Uticia, “this is about to be a retributive justice UNsafe space.” As she said it, Uticia raised her finger into the air to form a sharp 90 degree angle and hovered it inches from Ulfer’s forehead.
“Whoa, whoa, calm the fuck down, dude,” said Goggilisticus, “that’s some carceral logic right there. Anarcho-Gnomism replaces the punitive industrial-prison complex with abolitionist and restorative alternatives that rehabilitate offenders by reconciling them with the harmed.”
“Yeah, revenge is NOT okay, man. That’s what cops do. They get revenge on you for existing,” said Xexy.
“We don’t do that shit here. We only do restorative justice,” said Thoriatober.


“Wait a minute. I don’t get why I’m in trouble,” said Ulfer, “isn’t this anarchism? There are no rules. Rules are fascism.”
“This isn’t about breaking rules. This is about breaking feelings. And you have to restore that through making someone understand why what they did was wrong. That’s totally different from telling someone what to do like in fascism. Because it’s coming from them. From their heart. They choose to feel bad and never do it again” said Goggilisticus.
“But what if he never feels bad about it?” said Thermal, “The third principle of anarcho-Gnomism is that under anarchism everyone’s feelings are equally valid.”
“They are. That’s why you explain things reasonably so that there will be unanimity and no one is forced to think or do anything. That’s what anarchism’s about.”
“Okay, in that case I’m poking him in the head so he can understand what being poked in the head is like,” said Uticia.
“No. It doesn’t work like that. You have to use your words. How did you feel when Ulfer poked you?”
“I felt poked.”
“I disagree that you felt poked,” said Ulfer.
“Wait, what the fuck? You can disagree that poking is wrong, but you can’t disagree about my lived experience of poking. Even if something is yellow and I say that it feels red to me, you can say that it’s not red but you can’t say I don’t see it as red. You can’t speak for other people’s feelings,” said Goggilisticus.


“Who appointed you Lord of the Dome? I wanna talk about where the fuck Goggilisticus thinks he gets the authority to make me think about other people’s feelings. This is anarchism. I don’t have to do shit you tell me.”
“I’m not an authority figure. I’m mediating dialogue. Did you even READ the leaflet on anarcho-Gnomism?” said Goggilisticus.
“No. And I don’t have to because this is anarchism. I’m free to oppose doing or not doing whatever the fuck I like,” said Ulfer.
“I oppose you opposing,” said Uticia.
“I oppose you opposing my opposing,” returned Ulfer.
“I oppose you opposing my opposing you opposing,” said Uticia.
“I oppose you opposing my opposing you opposing my opposing,” replied Ulfer.
Uticia poked Ulfer in the head, thus putting an end to the infinite regression that is disagreement under postmodern anarchism.
“FUCK! Not restorative! Not restorative!” yelled Ulfer over and over.



“SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I WILL KILL YOU ALL,” the voice of the glossolalic alien priest boomed out. The gnomes stood in utter silence before huddling around the tree and drawing in another puff of hookah smoke that provided a smooth brain erasure of the previous hour’s debate. Political conflict was over.

Each gnome sunk into a relaxing levitation, swooping their arms in pyramidal arcs, and clasping their palms together to give namastes to the great plant before them as they worked on one of the most difficult tasks of New Age science: the collective manifestation of a hyperdimensional being without the aid of a crystal.

Miniature stars whirled about Narwhell’s head as her visualization of Santa Claus intensified. Narwhell was the leader among the gnomes in visualization technique after spending 78 straight years meditating on the image of a mushroom at a Dwarven Himalayan monastery. Ulfer, meanwhile, had taken a little sniff of the snowman Uoot had built, which was definitely not made out of snow. Consequently, he could not sit still in focus, but snapped about the base of the tree from meditation cushion to meditation cushion in hyperactive teleporty bursts.

The gnomes meditated for three straight hours, but Santa had not yet arrived. If the gnomes cared what hour it was they would have had a clock and that clock would have read 11:47 pm. Yet, not having before embodied the spirit of Christmas, they could not know that Santa’s arrival was imminent. So as of yet…

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the dome
Not a being was sober, above all a gnome;
In meditation they floated bout the tree with such care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas the super gnome would be there;
The Mormon children were nestled in fear in their cells;
Cowed into obedience by visions of hell;
And Uticia in her 'kerchief, and Uoot in his cap,
Had just burned out their brains smoking Saturnalia sap,
When out in the Church there arose such a chatter,
"They took the Christ out of Christmas!" Chastity snapped with a spatter.
Away to the window she flew like a flash,
To tear down the garlands and the baubles to smash.
A Christmas as bare as the new-fallen snow,
Without the lustre of sin was all children should know,
Deep in meditation, the gnomes began to get stoked
when the fireplace rumbled and issued some smoke,
Note: chimneys work better when they are attached to things.
When what to their wandering third eye did appear,
but a GIGANTIC red gnome with a flowing white beard!
Though a miniature sleigh and rein-deer that fly,
aren't as miraculous to someone that's high,
Seeing his sack the gnomes knew right real quick,
That the portly gnome fore them must be St. Nick.
And McKenna's surveillance elves had rightly earned fame,
for Santa identified each gnome by her name:
"Uticia, Ulfer! Now, Uoot and now Thermal! 
Dee Shaman, Goggilisticus, Xexy, and Narwhell!"
Santa calls each gnome by name.

“Thoriatober, Crangraw, and…you there!”
“Hey, how come he doesn’t know you, man?” said Uoot to glossolalic alien priest.
“We don’t have Christmas in my astral plane.”
“Oh.”

Hurling his pack to the ground with exhaustion,
Santa sat on a cushion while all the gnomes watched him.
Then booming from his belly, he gave them quite a surprise,
when he shouted "coal for all of ya' cause all you do is get high!"
"What the hell?" yelled Ulfer, feeling the fool,
"I thought all gnomes were supposed to be cool!"
"Dude, he's a Christian," yelled Crangraw from the back,
"He's not really a gnome, this was all just a trap!"
"Wait a minute," said Uoot, filling with hope.
"Santa Claus, won't you please just try some of our dope?"
"No way! I'm supposed to spread Christmas cheer,
not get listlessly stoned in a basement like here.
Besides, think how Mrs. Claus would be pissed,
if she saw the Kringle himself on the naughty list!"
"But smoking a blunt isn't pointless or wasteful,
fascists like Chastity are just needlessly hateful."
"Yeah, what's pointless and wasteful isn't this hash,
it's travelling from the Arctic with coal in your stash!
I wouldn't travel to China and all the way back
just to leave on Xi's doorstep a flaming shit sack,"

Then picking up a hookah pipe like a new Christmas toy,
Uoot promised to show Santa chemical joy.
"Santa Claus, I promise that if you miss this,
you'll never understand the true meaning of Christmas.
Why, with just a handful of three dried grams,
The child's Christmas joy can return to the man,
And just a tiny white pill can make everyone a friend
at least until Suicide Tuesday brings fun to an end,
but you'll never hear a merrier song
than what plays in your head when you've just had a bong.
If you want the whole tree to shimmer like the Northern Lights
just take a long draw from this hookah pipe."

"Well, alright, just maybe one puff,
I admit I'm curious about the stuff..."
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
His belly shook when he laughed, for he was quite chubby.
And he laughed and he laughed, though nothing was funny;
A twist of his joint, and a nod of his head,
Soon let the gnomes know there was nothing to dread;
"Why this isn't naughty, in fact, it's quite nice,
a million times better than mulberry spice!
Naughty or nice...why be so judgmental?
Can't believe I had elves do morality intel."
The gnomes gave a twirl, Christmas cheer had been spread
Santa Claus had converted into a deadhead.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
He snorted real hard and up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

"Merry Christmas to all, may all stay in good health--and always remember to redistribute your wealth!"

With that, the super gnome Santa Claus left a heaping mound of unearned presents at the base of the Gnome Dome’s centermost tree.
“Well fuck…that was something,” said Uoot.
“Yeah,” said Crangraw.
“Let’s open this shit dude,” said Dee.
The gnomes clustered around the tree staring in awe at the pile of free shit that they didn’t even need to leave their house for.


“I call that bong with the bow on it,” said Narwhell.

“That’s not how it works!” said Uoot, “You don’t just call out what you want. You only get the present with your name on it. So, like, for example, that megaphone next to the bread loaf has a tag that says ‘To: Crangraw From: Santa. May you peacefully bring down the system through high amplitude vocalization.”
“FUCK YEAH!” screamed Crangraw. “I need one of those for peaceful protesting. My other one broke.”
“How?”
“I smashed down a storefront window with it.”
“What were you protesting?”
“Windows.”
“Oh, yeah…I forgot. One protest kinda’ blends into the other…” said Dee, his eyes already lost on the distant horizon of a pot-induced half-slumber.
“Open one with my name on it!” said Xexy.


“Okay, okay…” said Uoot, “let me look for a present for Xexy.
Please be a portal to the magic realm…please be a portal to the magic realm…” she began muttering under her breath as she withdrew the following crinkled photo from her wallet and began clutching it desperately and rocking back and forth.

Lord Shiva, sage of Untamed Magic.

“Uhhhh…it looks like Xexy got……….a clawfoot tub filled with cactaceae.”
“Pretentious,” grunted Dee.
“What?!” said Uoot, “that’s the scientifically accurate term for them. I mean, they’re all different kinds of cactuses. So it makes more taxonomic sense to identify the set by its family rather than listing each species name.”
“See! See, right there. Just now you called them cactuses. It’s a tub full of cactuses. You could have just done that from the start. You’re just a pretentious douchebag. Santa should have given you coal.”
“What if I wanted coal?”
“No one wants coal.”
“Oh yeah? Tell that to cold people and developing countries you insensitive assclown.”


“Shutup, shutup!” shrieked the alien priest, “you guys will be arguing until next Christmas. I have shamanic rituals to perform on 37 different planets and 12 dimensions by Tuesday so can we wrap this up people?”
“You mean…unwrap this us,” came the low gurgling chuckle of Goggilisticus.
“Ugh GOD.”

“OPEN THE NEXT ONE! OPEN THE NEXT ONE!” chanted all the gnomes simultaneously.
“Alright, alright…” said Uoot.

Then, eyeing the giant bong with the bow on it from the corner of his eye while withdrawing a sharpie from his pocket, Uoot began to slowly and silently drift towards the bong while saying, “okay, whoever is next, open your presents!”
“Okay,” said Dee, wandering up to the present pile, holding the gift-wrapped box up to his ear, and shaking it.
“Whoaaaa….it sounds like if someone took a packet of screws, opened them and spilled them so that they’re loose in a cardboard box larger than is needed to contain them.”

“Open it man,” said Goggilisticus.
“I got a packet of jolly ranchers and MDMA!” Dee exclaimed.
“And I got a Sprite bottle filled with Ayuhuasca!” said Narwhell.
“Awesome!”
“Yeah, awesome!”
“Okay, now me” said Goggilisticus, ripping off the top of a cylindrical peppermint patterned gift with his teeth.
“A minature cowplant! Ah, that’s just what I wanted!”

“Don’t cow plants eat people?” said Dee.
“Yeah, isn’t that cool?”
“Wait, aren’t you vegan?”
“I got a beer brewing station!” said Uticia.
“I got a stump with polkadots on it!” shouted Thermal.
“I got a insect-dung-powered, organic type 2B plastic recycler that converts garbage into saleable etsy friendship bracelets!” chirped Crangraw, “Santa’s elves DO know everything!”
“I got bread and a radiator,” said the glossolalic alien priest, “also my bread came with a note that reads, ‘Honey, I think I put salt instead of sugar in this one. Found out when I took a bite. Dump this or feed it to the penguins? – Mrs. Claus.'”
“I got….a SOLD OUT sign from a furniture floor show,” said Thoriatober dolefully.

“Look on the bright side, Thoriatober,” said Uticia, “it has a picture of sofa on it.”
“I really don’t need your toxic positivity right now.”
“Sorry, I forget what it’s like to talk to people who haven’t achieved enlightenment and lost all concern for material objects.”
“Oh hey, look everybody!” said Uoot interrupting the group’s focus, “I found MY present!”


“Uhhhh….something looks kinda’ different about that thing since I last looked at it…” said Dee squinting.
“No it doesn’t,” said Uoot dashing towards the bong and loading it with fistfuls of crumbled marijuana leaves mingled with dust and crumbs of indecipherable origin from his pockets.
“What about my present?” said Ulfer, “I don’t see anything under the tree for me.” As Ulfer stood in lamentation, a series of weird noises echoed from the distance–clicking, scratching, and clucking sounds.

Ulfer spun around.
“Whoa. Is that a chicken coop?” said Uoot.
Ulfer walked up to a small wooden house that was laden with hay, miniature snowmen, and Christmas garlands.

A small note attached to the door of the coop read “A special gift for Ulfer from Santa Claus.”
Ulfer approached cautiously and as he got closer he noticed that one of the hens in particular appeared to glow with a low, golden aura. Additionally, as she strutted, small flecks of gold flicked off her wings, shimmered for a moment, and then were gone.

“Uhhhh, guys…I think this chicken is glowing. It some like golden aura or something.”
“You sure you’re not just on shrooms?”
“Yeah man, not at all. I’m only stoned.”


Ulfer stood in perplexity at golden glowing chicken until a cosmic vibration from the Other suddenly downloaded knowledge into his brain:

“HOLY CRAP. GUYS. I JUST HAD A DOWNLOAD. I KNOW WHAT THIS IS. IT’S A GOLDEN CHICKEN.”
“Yeah…uhh…yeah. I think that was established by my eyeballs. And light. Light and my eyeballs,” said Dee.
“Sooo….what does that signify?” asked Hoppititia.
“Like I just got this download that told me ‘This is a Golden Chicken with golden pulse powers. They’ll use them.‘ Exactly like that. That’s what the cosmos said. Golden chickens do golden stuff.”
“Oooooh. Yeah. Makes sense.”
“Wait. Holy shit. Holy shit,” chanted Ulfer, getting increasingly excited, “I just realized something else.”
“Golden chickens lay golden eggs….”
“Yeah? So—OH. Whoa. Do you think? Holy crap. Holy crap. Santa is even more powerful than I thought.”
“Yes. If this chicken lays golden eggs, then that makes her…”

The entire universe freezes as Ulfer contemplates the identity of a chicken.

HIRANYAGARBHA” shouted every gnome in the Dome simultaneously.
There was no need for a conductor to orchestrate what followed next. It was as inevitable as an encounter with a schizophrenic crack addict on the 1 train.
Suddenly and all at once every gnome began to chant the tenth mandala of the oldest Vedic sacred scripture–the Rigveda RV 10.82.5,6 in perfect synchrony.

5 That which is earlier than this earth and heaven, before the Asuras and Gods had being,—
What was the golden egg primeval which the waters received where all the Gods were seen together?
6 The waters, they received that golden egg primeval wherein the Gods were gathered all together.
It rested set upon the Unborn's navel, that One wherein abide all things existing.
7 Ye will not find him who produced these creatures: another thing hath risen up among you.
Enwrapt in misty cloud, with lips that stammer, hymn-chanters wander and are discontented.

When they had finished reciting the hymn, Ulfer declared “YES. IT CAN BE NO OTHER. For it was spoken by the rishis of old, those great sages and poets of ancient wisdom, that it was that golden egg–Hiranyagarbha–wherein all the Gods were contained that rested upon the navel of Vishvakarman, that ONE that encompasses and transcends. When the eggs hatched in the navel of primeval waters, the One became manifest as maya–the universe just as the multifarious rays of color are born from the ONE white light split asunder by a crystal. THUS was the universe born from the union of the One with itself, birthing forth, as it gazed into its navel and found therein Hiranyagarbha.”
The gnomes sighed in sacred awe.
“Each time an egg is laid, a universe is born,” stated the glossolalic alien priest with solemnity, “Remember this well: Every time you gaze into your navel, you imitate cosmic creation.”
“Praise Vishvakarman the cosmic navel gazer and Hiranyagarbha who birthed him.”
Having learned that his Christmas present was God, Ulfer was happy. He bowed a deep and grateful bow to the chicken coop and also the Saturnalia tree. He was glad that he had been open minded and celebrated this holiday instead of rejecting it due to its association with the Christians.
“Uhhhhhh…guys….” came the concerned voice of Narwhell.
“What? Don’t tell me you’re gonna’ disrupt this sacred moment to ask how old the Indian food in the back of the fridge is again.”
“No. It’s just that I wondered where Santa gets all this stuff and I found out that he’s not re-appropriating it. His elves make it.”
“WHAT?!”
“Yeah. Santa’s a fucking capitalist. He runs a sweat shop full of elves.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”
“I knew we shouldn’t do something the Christians do. I was against this from the start and now see where it got us,” said Dee.
“NO YOU WEREN’T. You wanted free shit,” said Uoot.
“DUDE WHEN DID YOU FIND THIS OUT?”
“uH…about eight hours ago before we decided to celebrate Christmas.”
“FUCK. HOLY CRAP…I..I…YOU MEAN…I SHARED SACRED SMOKE CIRCLE WITH A CAPITALIST?! A CHRISTIAN CAPITALIST? AND YOU DIDN’T STOP US?! Ggghr…aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

And with that realization, the gnomes proceeded to amass every piece of Christmas wrapping, baubles, lights, and garland along with the Saturnalia tree into a pile in the center of the room and light it on fire. For the first and last time ever, Chastity Smith and the Gnomes were doing the exact same activity, just one above ground in the Church and the other below the Church in a psychedelic Dome. Then every gnome vowed, with the glossolalic alien priest guiding them, to never imitate anything the Christians did ever again and then imitated the act of ultimate creation by lying in the hot tub with an egg in their navel as they chanted the rest of the Rigveda.

A Gnome Christmas Carol
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2 thoughts on “A Gnome Christmas Carol

  • January 21, 2022 at 9:25 pm
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    STOP PHOTOSHOPPING GNOMES INTO PICTURES OF MY HOUSE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, I CHANGED THE LOCKS

    Reply
  • January 22, 2022 at 10:06 am
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    Terrence McKenna and the Super Gnome! All right, then. Never expected to see that in SimLit!

    Reply

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