Green Scrooges Declare Christmas Plum Pudding Causes Global Warming

Whatever. There is nothing so sacred, beloved, traditional, or delicious that the killjoy thermomaniac watermelons won't try to stop you from enjoying it. The latest target is the iconic plum pudding.

"Every idiot apocalyptic eco-fanatic who goes about with
Merry Christmas Save the Earth on his lips should be boiled with his
own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."
(with apologies to Charles Dickens and Ebenezer Scrooge.)

OK, now all I can think about is that delightfully evocative and affectionate passage from Dickens' 1843 book "A Christmas Carol," when Mrs. Cratchit serves her pudding on Christmas Day. So here it is, gentle reader:

But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs Cratchit left the room alone -- too nervous to bear witnesses -- to take the pudding up and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough? Suppose it should break in turning out? Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose -- a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid? All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that. That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs Cratchit entered -- flushed, but smiling proudly -- with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

So, to echo Tiny Tim, "God bless us, every one!"