George's Christmas Carol

In an instant they were in the cramped Cratchit living room.

"I don't know, Mother, how we'll manage to survive this coming year," said Cratchit to his bustling wife who was setting the table for their meager Christmas dinner of meat loaf and mash. "There's talk that the office will be outsourcing my job to some poor person in Bangladesh, our home may go into foreclosure because of the subprime loan we had to take out, we can't afford to send our older kids to college, and then there's Tiny Tim's care."

George said to the Ghost: "This is a poor family; can't they go somewhere, to their church maybe, to get the boy some medical assistance?"

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS FUTURE

And with that last word, the Ghost of Christmas Future appeared, looking like the Spectre of Death, very tall, wearing a hooded black cape and carrying a huge sickle.

George's knees were knocking in fear. "Who are you?"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Future. Come with me; I want to show you something." The two of them floated above a gravesite at a cemetery.

"Did the U.S. soldier and the Iraqi Tiny Tim die in Iraq?"

"Yes," said the Ghost, "but this is not the grave of either of those."

"Well, whoever died, that person was not very popular. There's virtually nobody mourning by the gravesite."

"You're right. He led such a crass, selfish, greedy life -- never really bothered by the lies he told and the mayhem his arrogant policies caused -- that few mourned his departure from the world."

"That's sad. Nobody should die like that. I can't quite make out the name on the gravestone. Let me see. It looks like -- oh, no!" At which point, George collapsed to his knees.

"I tried to live a good life," George croaked, aiming his words to Heaven. "I accepted Jesus Christ into my heart. I stopped using drugs and drinking. Well, mostly. I ran my campaign on the theme of compassion."

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