Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Every year in Whoville, the people gathered to celebrate generosity, community, and the radical idea that happiness doesn’t come with a subscription fee. High above them—naturally, in a tax-optimized mountain lair—lived the Grinch.

In this version, the Grinch had options: he was either Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos, depending on which billionaire mood swing the news cycle was in that day.

He hated Christmas. Not because of the singing, or the lights, or even the joy. He hated it because none of it could be monetized enough. Carolers didn’t accept ads. Gifts weren’t bundled with premium upgrades. And worst of all—Whoville kept insisting that “togetherness” mattered more than quarterly earnings.

So the Grinch did what modern Grinches do. He didn’t sneak down chimneys. That was inefficient. Instead, he bought the chimney company, fired the workers, automated the chimneys, and raised prices 40%.

He stole Christmas quietly—through acquisitions, patents, union-busting, and same-day delivery. Toys? Rebranded. Food? Subscription-based. Lights? Powered by proprietary energy grids. Even the roast beast came with terms of service no one read.

And yet, on Christmas morning, something strange happened.

Down in Whoville, the people still sang.

They sang without Prime.

They sang without rockets.

They sang without a single billionaire “disrupting” joy for a fee.

The Grinch paused. For a brief, horrifying moment, his heart grew.

Not metaphorically—medically.

It swelled three sizes. Chrome-plated. With optional AI integration. His smartwatch immediately sent an alert: ANOMALY DETECTED. EMPATHY SPIKE.

“Absolutely not,” the Grinch muttered.

Within minutes, a private helicopter was dispatched. He was rushed to the nearest luxury hospital—one that didn’t accept regular insurance because that would be socialism. Doctors gathered around, shaking their heads.

“Sir,” one whispered, “your heart appears to be… expanding.”

The Grinch gasped. “Reverse it. Now.”

“But this could mean—”

“I did not spend my life avoiding taxes, hoarding wealth, and calling basic compassion ‘inefficient’ just to feel something now.”

The surgeons worked quickly. The heart was reduced. Shareholder-friendly. Optimized. The excess compassion was removed and stored in a vault, later written off as a loss.

Back on the mountain, the Grinch watched Whoville celebrate. He considered—briefly—giving something back.

Then he checked his net worth.

“Oh good,” he said. “Still obscene.”

And so Christmas continued below, warm and human and unprofitable, while high above, the Grinch smiled—not because his heart grew, but because he had successfully had it fixed.

And that, children, is the modern moral of the story:

In today’s world, the Grinch doesn’t learn a lesson.

He learns how to afford not to. 🎄