A funny collection of Twas The Night Before Christmas parodies

  Dirty Night Before Christmas (5)

Posted to alt.journalism.gonzo by Pat D (dpatrick@volcanomail.com) on 2002-12-20.
It was somewhere around X-mas, when all thru Owl Farm
Not one bastard was calling, not even Ol' Blue Arm*
The rough drafts were strewn about the kitchen without a care
In hopes that Simon & Schuster's advance check would be there

The groupie was nestled in my bed
With visions of halluncionary lizards in her head
And a neighbor threatening to put a cap in my ass
For settling in Woody Creek as a person with no class

When out by the front gate an electronic shock clattered
I sprang from the kitchen table to see what the hell was the matter
Maybe one of those damn peacocks were sneaking into the trash
Ripped savagely at the shutters and lit some hash

"The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow"
Sounds like F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote that, y'know
Then, to my bloodshot eyes should appear
Some fat bastard being pulled by eight deer

The Angels should be honored to ride with this prick
Who goes by several names, Kringle and/or Nick
"More rapid than eagles his coursers they came"
Who wrote that? Joseph Conrad's not his name

What?!! Did I just say that?

"Now Dasher, now Dancer, Prancer and Vixen"
Goddamn, those must be some hot-looking strippers
"On Comet, on Cupid, on Donder and Blitzen"
What kind of sick bastard gives those names out then?

And then, I heard one of those deer tinkling on my goddamn roof
I'd like to pick off each one of those beasts owned by that pooft
As I reached for my gun, and was turning around
Splat! Down thru the fireplace came Kringle with a bound

He was effeminately dressed in some red thing that came to a point
His clothes were tarnished with pinholes burns, no doubt from joints
A bundle of toys (stolen probably) flung on his back
And he looked like Ernest Hemingway on X and crack

His eyes, damn, they're redder than Mayor Marion Berry
His empty li'l packet of paper made his deviated septum like a cherry
His sarcastic mouth couldn't be made out from his unshaven face
And I swear this f---er was surely doing blow for his marathon race

"The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly"
-- H.L. Mencken once described the shifty bastard that way.
But then again, Mencken had an affinity for certified crazies.

But not me, Bubba. Not this bastard.
I grabbed my sawed-off 12 gauge shotgun and ran onto the porch
"Get off my roof, you f---ing whore! Do you think you're dealing with
children here?"
"Ho, ho, ho, Merry --- ?" The bastard wasn't gonna get another word
out of his mouth,
As the shotgun blast missed him and gave the bastard pause.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot me, Mr. Thompson. It's Claus!"
"Damn it, I know damn well who you are, Fat Man. That's exactly why
I'm shooting.
Last year you drank all my bourbon, smoked all my pot, hash and opium,
hoovered all my snow, did up my speed, and ate all my acid!"
"Um, excuse me, Mr. Thompson. I think you may have those statements
confused. It was YOU last year who did all those things.
You made me sit in your kitchen saying that you wanted to show me that
you, like reindeer, really know how to fly.
My good sir, I must admit I never saw your feet leave the ground, not
even once. So, that would make me innocent of any of your
"What!! Are you calling me a god damn liar?!

That was The Last Straw. I decided the old bastard was going to
Really Pay now.
Unbeknownst to me, a small patch of black ice developed on one of the
stairs leading down from the porch and caused me to slip.
Before I could get up from the ground, one of his deer shat on me from
the roof. (I found out later it was the alcoholic one called Rudy).
"Savage scum!" I screamed as I struggled to my feet, but it was to no
avail, as the deer dung was stinging my eyes like nothing I felt since
Chicago 1968.
Claus obviously saw this as his change to escape. He sprang to his
sleigh, to his team gave a sharp whistle and a sharp crack of his
Funny how one never sees the whip in any artist's rendition of Claus.
I did hear him exclaim as he drove out of sight,
"F--- you, Thompson! F--- you!! You'll never see the likes of me
You're a very, very bad man, Mr. Thompson! Good night!"

Yeah "Merry Christmas to you, Claus" in jail !!
(to be continued)

* see "Curse of Lono"


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