UnNews:Was George R.R. Martin behind holiday character deaths?

Uncyclopedia is somewhat ashamed to present a special editorial from our own Glenn Fitzgerald, author of A Song of Fire and Ice: My Battles with Hemorrhoids. Most of our staff is off the for the holiday weekend, and since ol' Glenn has no family or loved ones, he's agreed to hold down the office in exchange for an editorial. Friday, December 23, 2016 Santa brought me a choo-choo that year, but my innocence had already derailed. Unless you've been living under a rock, or you have rocks for brains, or your head was bashed in by a rock, you know that this has not been the typical Christmas season. Over the past month I've watched all the magical beings I admired as a kid be erased from existence one by one, and not even in magical, whimsical ways. Here I thought my childhood died when my uncle played underpants Twister with me, but clearly I was wrong. I warned you oh so many years ago that this would be the final sour consequences of the War on Christmas. I believe my exact words were: "Santa Claus will freeze to death, Rudolph will be shot, Frosty will melt, and an evil Satanic goat from Hell will take over the world if we give in to political correctness." But did you listen to me? No. Now look where we are. Of course, no amount of finger pointing and I-told-you-so's will pull us out of this mess. If there's one thing fighting in the army and watching every Christmas special known to man tells me, it's that right now we need brains and action. Oh, it would be all too easy to blame the liberals for this one, but they only paved the road to the Gates of Hell. There's only one man responsible for building Hell's infrastructure: George R.R. Martin. You read that correctly. The Game of Thrones author is behind all this insanity. You know in the depths of your heart that it's the truth. Does it not explain everything? We all know writers are inherently insane, but only the greatest writers are insane enough for global destruction. I would bet my fortune of old National Review subscriptions that if you followed the trails left behind these "mishaps", each would lead back to the bloated white whale, Sailor Tolkien himself. There's no doubt in my mind that he even hired Krampus to be his patsy. His goatsy, if you will. I met with Mr. RR in person at a book signing he was giving in his home town of Santa Fe, and I gave the fat bastard the grilling of his life. I wasn't nice about it. None of this "Good Cop, Bad Cop" bullshit. We all know Good Cop fell through the ice. Within this man is the nefariousness of a thousand grinches. Plus two. RR: Hey there, buddy! [sees that I don't have a book, picks personal shot from stack] So to whom should I make this out? Me: Some people just want to sit back and watch the world freeze. RR: Huh? Me: Don't play dumb. An epic power struggle, one sole victor, one beloved chracter after another facing an untimely, burtal death. This has your stank all over it. RR: What the Sam Hell are you talking about? Me: You did it! You orchestrated the death of Santa Claus! You couldn't stand the fact that there was another old bearded fat guy getting more press than you, so you sent the poor geezer to an icy grave! Now you're wiping out all his potential successors! You derive pleasure killing everything we love. Why must you kill Christmas as well? You're going to throw this planet into a long winter apocalypse just to prove your own genius. Oh, and having an ancient goat devil ruling over it all. Brah-vo! [sarcastic slow clapping] Somebody give this man a Nobel Prize in Literature before he ruins civilization. RR: Okay, look, I know my fans like to think themselves as imaginative, but I write high fantasy, not bad Christmas specials. I mean, frankly, I'm insulted. Murder accusations, sure, I'm okay with that. I worked hard to be called the Angel of Death. No, it's the fact that you think my genius could be reflected in a story thread so uninspired and hacky. Me: You can't win, RR! Krampus will hold you accountable like everyone else! Mark my words: he will betray you! Have you learned nothing from the Sith? RR: Security! Me: Winter is coming, ain't it RR?! Winter! Is! COMING!!! It will be a cold day in Hell on Earth. After they let me out of mall jail, I took the liberty of breaking into RR's mansion to snoop around. I trashed the place digging through every drawer, every closet, every nook and cranny, even the man's garbage, but I found nothing incriminating. I was looking forward to hackoring into his computer, but apparently RR only writes on a typewriter like a snob. I was so infuriated that I threw the damn thing into the fireplace, along with his only existing draft of The Winds of Winter. I've come to the conclusion that either RR was as thorough hiding his fingerprints as one would expect from such a towering evil mastermind, or that he had nothing to do with any of this. Without any hard evidence to expose RR and save Christmas, it seems all is hopeless. Unless miracles do exist, tomorrow night an evil demonic goat will rule over us all, and there's absolutely nothing we can do to stop it from coming to pass. God help us, everyone.