Gerald Knutson, 42, has had his holiday season ruined. Twins Daily once again supplied me with the funds to interview one local fan about his feelings about the ballclub.
Unfortunately, Gerald hasn’t watched an inning since they traded Brusdar Graterol away to Los Angeles. Fox Sports North left YouTube TV around that time, and he refuses to pay cable prices to watch meaningless regular season games.
The “Twins” causing him distress aren’t the Twins at all. The nativity scene outside of Our Lady of Perpetual Helplessness—a favorite parish among Minnesota sports fans–included two baby Jesuses this year.
“What child is this?” he asks, gesturing at the second infant nestled among the barn animals.
I suggest that was an oversight, but Gerald is positive he missed a doctrinal update in the bulletin. I offer to go in and get an explanation.
Inside, I run into the parish priest, Fr. Maloney. He greets me, “Remember when Brett Favre threw that interception in the NFC Championship?” I then introduce myself as a reporter for Twins Daily and ask him about the double Messiahs outside. He blinks.
“Twins Daily?” He asks. “Do you know the young man who writes there and keeps coming in asking to buy indulgences? He wrote an ill-advised satire piece about the Pope last May. That site should only let RandballsStu write satire. Everyone else there sucks.”
“Well, some of it’s more parody,” I start. “And some of it’s surreal—”
“Ask the Church Lady about the two Christ childs,” he says, cutting me off before I can point out the red box drawn around this very transcript.
Where is that coming from? You can see it too, right?
“Oh, we installed a new nativity scene this year,” says the Church Lady. I am in a different room. It’s like my childhood living room, except blue and there were no doors or windows. I think the Church Lady’s name was Barbara Rethke, but I think she just went by Church Lady. “We must have left the old child out there on accident.
“And while we’re talking about the Twins, they should not sign Luis Arraez. His swing decisions are horrendous, and he doesn’t have another tool to support him if his BABIP starts with a two.”
Finally, I have my Twins fan.
“They also need to move David Festa to the bullpen. Two plus-plus pitches. Closer stuff. By the way, did you read Matthew this morning?”
“Of course,” I reply. “Riveting genealogy.”
“Not the scripture,” she scoffs. “Matthew from Twins Daily. He wrote about whether the Twins should sign Kennys Vargas to platoon with Clemens. 13,000 views. 173 comments.”
She turns her computer monitor toward me. Below the Vargas story was a second Matthew, chronicling the time he made the A-Honor Roll despite being a truant, reflecting poorly on Highland Park Senior High.
“I guess we really do plagiarize everything Gleeman says,” I muse.
“There is nothing new under the sun,” she replies. “Every story has been told and will be told again. Though if Gleeman wants to protect his material, he should invest in a VPN, promo code CHURCHLADY. And also, Matt Wallner has a huge hole in his swing at the top of the zone.”
Why is the definition of satire at the top of this page? This clearly isn’t satire.
Through one of the room’s many windows, I see Gerald has organized a protest. Some of the protesters seem to understand it’s about the mysterious twins in the manger, but more seem convinced it’s a protest of the Twins. Most wear Vikings purple, naturally.
Santa Claus out there, too. He gives me a wry smile and says he’s on his way to give cheap pohlad a lump of coal.
“I’m hoping to catch him before he leaves for Target Field with the Ghost of Christmas Present,” says Father Christmas.
“Who is the Ghost of Christmas Present?” I ask.
“They refuse to announce it,” he replies. “But if payroll doesn’t go up, does it even matter?” A Vikings helmet rolls out of the crowd. St. Nicholas kicks it. He screams in agony, dropping to his knees.
“Did you know Santa broke his toe when they shot this scene?” the Church Lady asks me.
Was she wearing that Guardians cap this whole time? I wonder if the Twins should sign Miguel Sano as a pitcher.
My phone buzzes. I have an MLB notification. The Twins signed Josh Bell. One year, seven million. Wait. Am I dreaming? That’s not realistic at all. And what’s the meaning—
I wake up. I’m lying swaddled in a hospital bed. Around me sat three wise men—RandballsStu, Phil Miller, and …
“Gerald Knutson?” I ask the stranger, whose face I had only ever seen in the dream.
“No, I’m Parker Hageman,” the man replies.
“I thought you were a myth,” I say.
“No, I just don’t really write much anymore.”
“Greggory,” says Stu, “if that is your real name. I’m here to talk about satire. It’s not funny when anyone but me does it.”
“But I’m not doing satire,” I protest. “You of all people must understand.”
“Not. Funny,” said he.
“It’s not supposed to be funny,” I exasperatedly reply. “It’s supposed to be amusing. But what is Phil doing here?”
“I don’t have anything better to do in retirement,” the aged writer admits as he got up to fiddle with the hospital jukebox.
“You’ve been in a coma for weeks,” Stu says. “TC Bear dropped a piano on your head. You popped out with piano keys for teeth and everything.” At least I knew I hadn’t missed any Twins news. It was still December.
“So then what’s the true meaning of Christmas?” I ask.
“I’m a nihilist,” answers Stu. “Christmas doesn’t mean anything to me. An ass spat in my face earlier today. I felt nothing. I never have.”
Don’t Stop Believing by Journey started playing on the hospital jukebox.
“Say what you will about the tenets of Chicago White Sox fanhood, but at least it’s an ethos,” a voice from behind me says. I turned my head to see Santa Claus leaning through the open window, away from the three.
“I just gave a lump of—