People in my office have no debate with 'Christmas' vs 'Holiday'...
There is even a 'Jesus Is The Reason for the Season' banner, with blinking lights, above the supervisor La Fronda's (yes, the same) red, white and blue 'Kill Them All, Let God Sort it Out' marine recruitment poster.
(Yeah, and she doesn't do irony.)

Marilyn has strung garland, and red straw Xmas bells from the bathroom to the breakroom. Every flat surface is covered in shiny stuff or fake snow, or Jesus, and Holiday Icons, including Santa and frosty. There is a wreath sticker on the tampax machine.
My favorite, though, is the donkey, who looks sad, or maybe just enduring. There is no manger this year because last year I 'defiled' it. Or so some say. For whatever reason, the donkey is still around -standing there next to a dish of red and green Hershey's kisses, ears at 9 and 3, head at half mast, across the shelf from Jesus, who looks hot, as usual, albeit a little effeminate, dressed like a Shepherd, surrounded by sheep. Not to my taste but I've noticed a certain Don staring wistfully in His direction....
Or is it?
You know, some men love the horseflesh.
And, of course, most men from Montana lost their virginities to the shy young shitcrusted ewe.
I've read that somewhere.

"Are you from Montana?" I ask Don.
"......No...." he answers, some might say snappishly. He still blames me for his 'girlfriend' finding a stack of porn cards in his luggage ("Make New Friends!" and "Eat Out More" "CARRY A CAMERA!!") The night before leaving vegas I was positively OVERCOME with career goals and porn pamphlets. Apparently Don's 'girlfriend' has never heard of a Success Coach.

I continue to stare at Don. "Where are you from?" I prompt.
His new policy regarding conversation with me seems to be answer only direct questions.
He sighs and looks up from his computer screen where he was pretending to study the weather.
12 degrees and hazy for the next 4 days.

"I graduated from The University of Oregon," he sighs, "Okay?"

"No, I mean where did you spend your FORMATIVE YEARS? Like...puberty...?" I restate.

He stares at me and his face actually twitches. He appears to be seriously considering not answering my question. Who is this Don? He says,

"I'm not sure why that is important to you or why you think it is any of your beeswax."

He actually really says 'beeswax' in a sentence. I make a note of it.
He stares at me some more.
This is definately more interesting than I thought. I look at the donkey and the sheep, at least one of which has his/her little fluffy backside pointed right at us. The donkey looks...defeated.
I look back at Don.
I picture a dark barn in the dead of night. Don, his round face, mottled and red, intent, illuminated by a full moon, little flannel jammies around his newly hairy fat ankles, groin pressed against a donkey ...or a sheep... placidly chewing its way through another bad night... the stench of hay, dung, and stridex heavy in the air....night after night...an impulse he can't control. Guilt in the daytime, whispered confessions on sunday. A suspicious rash on all concerned. Eventually he is caught. Someone hears braying (or bleating) and makes the discovery.
Don's father and mother are woken up, a town meeting called. Humiliation. Don is run out of town. His family disowns him. His 4-H ribbons burned.
The donkey/sheep is butchered for Christmas dinner.
Do they eat donkey outside of France?
My eyes lite on the little gluestick in Don's supply cup next to his monitor.
I gasp.
He looks at me, slaps his fat little hand on his desk.
"What!?" he whines.
From across the cubical wall, Sue says, "He's from Wisconsin. Don't be such a twat, Don."
Ahhh. Yes. I relax and smile. It's Jesus, then. Hot hot Jesus. I look at the Jesus figure, his flowing locks, too-long eyelashes, pink lips. Tomorrow I will bring in a better Jesus. Hotter.

I grab the donkey on my way back to my desk. Just in case. WWJD, in deed.