Match Game Xmas: "Placide Cappeau de Roquemaure, Baphomet, a Templar, and Jan Hus ___ this holy day"

Fill in the blank with ten words or more to make a story.

And Merry Christmas to you all!

Placide Cappeau de Roquemaure, Baphomet, a Templar, and Jan Hus are roasting in the bowels of a hell hotter than a million suns this holy day. Praise!

Jan Hus spent Christmas with their respective family. Family members are now posting in the DU Lounge begging for vibes and hugs.

Merry Christmas, Rabrrrrrr

up his mistletoe-laden wazoo, where his little red rosetta sphincter sucked it up like day-old eggnog.

...that said "No goats allowed." When they tried to order a drink, the bartender insisted that Baphomet had to leave, owing to his wooly beard and curvy horns. "I am not a goat!" he shouted defiantly. "I have merely the aspect of one!"
"No exceptions," replied the bartender. "Goat or goatlike aspect, we cannot serve you. Why just last week I had to kick Sam Zell out. The week before, Stevie Nicks."
In the meantime, a table of Rosicrucians that had been enjoying their informal office Christmas party suddenly became quiet and turned to look in the direction of the disputed patrons. "Let the fuckin' goat has a drink!" said the head Rosicrucian, who followed his slurred command with a loud burp.
Across the room, a table of defrocked Anabaptists stirred. They had been drinking for hours and while earlier they had engaged in a spirited debate over who was more alpha male, Kirk or Picard, they had recently fallen into a quiet funk, punctuated only now and then by an errant fart, each of which was followed quickly by a hoarse "'scuse me."
"Throw the stinkin' goat out." Shouted one of the Anabaptists. His roused companions responded with rhythmic banging on the table and chanted "Throw the goat out!"
A melee ensued. Itchy robes and crooked sticks flew everywhere. A table of sodden Cathari monks teamed up with the Rosicrucians and some displaced Huguenot nuns assisted the Anabaptists. Coptics joined in the fray, accompanied by some Zoroastians. Finally, a lone figure jumped atop the bar, smashed a wine bottle and held it menacingly aloft while shouting at the mob to quiet down.
It was, of course, Placide Cappeau de Roquemaure.
"Mesdames et monsieurs, we all of us can get along, no?" he spoke in desparation. "Zis is zee time of my dear Savior’s birth, n'est ce pa? Regardless of what we believe, mes amis, do we not see zis time as all of nature knows it? Is zis not zee time of zee sun’s return to earth, a time zat light will vanquish zee cruel darkness of zee winter? Do we not all have zee spark of zee hope zis day, and can we not recognize zat same spark in zee hearts of others? Should we not be celebrating zis common yearning and abandon our differences for at least zis one time of zee year?"
In a far corner of the barroom, one of the tiles in the dropped ceiling had been pushed aside and a furry countenance looked down on the fighting throng. It was the Ceiling Cat himself and he had been so moved by Cappeau’s plea that he vowed, there and then, that when his legions of kittehs overtook the earth, as was planned to occur only three weeks hence, that this hooman’s death would be mercifully swift and painless.
And that’s exactly how things happened in a crowded tavern that faced a lonely, snow-covered back street on…

:applause:

:rofl:

If only he'd smashed a Lillet bottle and not a wine bottle, it would have been personally satisfying.

"hooman's death would be mercifully swift and painless" - :rofl:

An excellent twist on an excellent story!

I must say the premise challenged my memory of obscure religious sects. I regret that I had forgotten to include the Shakers. :D

:applause:

I hope the moral of the story is clear, that whatever our differences we are all hostage to the whims of Ceiling Cat. :)

"...faiths, except no faith from where do you come: This Holy Day?"