December 25th, 1642, Julian calendar, Sir Isaac Newton is born. Jesus, on the other hand, was actually born in the summer. His birthday was moved to coincide with the traditional Pagan holiday that celebrated the Winter Solstice with lit fires and slaughtered goats. Which, frankly, sounds like more fun than 12 hours of church with my mother followed by a fruitcake. –Merry Newtonmas, everyone!
Niles, you old Scrooge. Get into the Christmas spirit. –Spoken by one who doesn't have to clean it all up. –Well, that's the thing about Chanukah. Eight candles and a menorah; no fuss, no muss. –Is it too late to convert? –Never. We'll get you a Bar Mitzvah and, of course, a circumcision. –Suddenly I'm filled with the Christmas spirit.
Now come on, now. You've seen these kids! They're sneaky... deceitful! I don't wanna have to kill one them, I'm telling you, it's Christmas. You send me some help, Lord! Send me an angel, an elf... Send me one of them lucky midgets with a pot of gold, I'm desperate! Somebody gonna get physically hurt.
It's OK, you don't have to give me anything in return. –Of course I do. The essence of custom is that I now have to go out and purchase for you a gift of commensurate value and representing the same perceived level of friendship as that represented by the gift you've given me. It's no wonder suicide rates skyrocket this time of year.