This Christmas, Ministress, I would like to ruminate on my memories of yesteryear, when you were but a wee tentacled horror skittering about the villager-ridden countryside like a zombie child in a people-flavored candy store. Back then, the prophecies of your coming to this accursed planet were still rumors, muttered fearfully by gibbering cabals of IBM cultists. Ascots were in vogue, the typewriter was the next iPad, and people drank Tab. It was a golden era for humanity that you would soon ruin with things like Google spreadsheets and cheap on-demand professional services automation from Projector PSA. On this Christmas holiday, I for one am thankful that I can look forward to unutterable torment every Tuesday morning, during your Appeasement Ceremonies, when fellow cultists insert replacement RFID chips into my cranium. God bless America for its unholy privileges, and God bless us, every miserable one.