Three traveling salesmen were having no luck at selling the last of their wares before the end of the year.

A new edict came from the local Roman client king that merchants could deduct 80 percent of the value of surplus goods they donated to a good cause.

So, the salesmen started asking around.

“Hey, you know any good causes that could use my stuff?”

“Sure,” replied a group of shepherds.  “We had a mass hypnosis dream that told us an infant is the secret son of a line of kings but he was born in the humblest of poor circumstances.”

The salesmen quarreled over the meaning of this statement.

“Well, my moneylender could say this is a charitable cause, could he not?  Gifts for the poor and all that.”

“I don’t know.  I mean, what if this is some kind of ruse?”

“Maybe you’re right.  But all we need is a blank receipt and we can let the accountants work out the details of the deduction.”

So they left the market and humped their camels over to the stockyard where this baby was said to be born, chatting as they went.

“Man, you ever get saddle sores?”

“Yeah.  And I’ve got the solution!  I have an exclusive shipment of talcum powder I’m willing to sell at a special discount, just for you!”

The stockyard owner chased them away, telling them he wanted no more to do with strange tales and late-night visitors.

The salesmen continued on.  Eventually, they arrived at a small house and, like good salemen wearing their best clothes, presented themselves as three wise kings from afar (although, in truth, they were three wise guys looking for any angle to close a sale).

The first spoke.  “I present to you, the parents of this shiny new baby, my gift of gold, which, at 80 percent of market value, is a really good deal!”

The second spoke.  “I humbly bow before this magnificent child and graciously offer my gift of the last lot of frankincense that, in every bazaar of this great city, is worth more than its weight in gold!”

The third spoke.  “My esteemed colleagues are wonderful, aren’t they?  But let’s face fact.  There’s nothing you want for the middle of winter like a fresh box of myrrh, especially, if you’ll pardon my saying so, when the precious gift of a beautiful baby like this one has a little accident after eating and, forgive me for speaking out of turn, leaves a lot to be desired in the odour department.”

After some small talk with the baby’s parents, the salesmen realised they weren’t going to get a blank receipt for their gifts from road-weary parents who were wise to the ways of fly-by-night trinket sellers.

Thus, the salesmen waited until the shepherds stopped by to ensure there were witnesses should an audit of the salesmen’s finances question a deduction for gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the son of an obscure poor couple in Bethlehem, just in case no one believed their story that an angel had spoken to them to follow a star.

After a few sketches by the local papyrus newspaper artist, the crowd began to disperse.

Bowing with apologies, the salesmen rushed back to their hometowns, avoiding any contact with the Roman client king Herod until they could get their travel receipts straightened out.  Tired, hungry and dusty, they arrived safely at home, carefully documenting their sales, ready to see what shipments they had that would sell better on their next trips.