Friday, December 25, 2015

Encore Post. Crappy Holidays. And Crappy Holidays, the Sequel

I wrote these two twisted Christmas poems quite a few years ago.  Enjoy or not.

Crappy Holidays, by me

Merry, Merry, merry Christmas
I hope you don't have a long wish list
Because Santa wouldn't feed his elves.
Not even top ramen on the shelves.
Santa should have had a premonition
Because those hungry elves knew where he kept his ammunition
They tipped their hats and drank a beer
Then they slaughtered all the reindeer
They built a fire, sang "Jingle Bells"
No more messy reindeer; no more hungry elves.
But Santa, he was real pissed
He took a shot at one and missed.
Hit Mrs. Claus smack in the heart.
Old St. Nick ain't very smart.
He hid the body 'neath the sleigh
set it afire, and ran away.
Now, he's shaved his beard and dyed his hair
And is driving cab down near BelAir.
Well, Christmas past may have been pleasant
But this year, you'll have to buy your own damn presents!

Crappy Holidays, the Sequel (Scary Christmas)  also by me

As Santa drove a BelAir cab
the forensic experts worked in their labs
It seems some evidence had disappeared
This was attributed to the one surviving reindeer
Rudolf, always Santa's fav,
when questioned lapsed into convenient moments of memory fade.
What he did recount was lots of shooting,
reindeer dying and drunken elves looting.
It was an elf who was in custody.
It seems that Santa would go scott free.
But, Santa, while driving some green haired punk
got himself pulled over, for driving drunk.
He lost his job, became a bum,
and ended up on the streets hanging out with others considered skum.
But one night he saw visions of dancing sugar plums
and concluded it might be time he got off the rum.
So he cleaned up his act and sought out a new gig
--padded fat and red, at Walmart, in a shaggy polyester white wig
He was Santa again, dishing out sap
and telling lies to the kiddies while they screamed on his lap.
But he longed for the sleigh and the thrill of the ride
The shopping mall bullshit was too much to abide!
Meanwhile, Rudolf consulted specialists
hoping to restore his shot off nose
"We can give you a new nose," they said
"but we can't give you one that glows."
So Rudolf made a sacrifice, one he cannot recant
and slipped one fateful moonless night into an unguarded Russian nuclear plant.
He slurped down a concoction of vodka and uranium
then headed south through the black starry sky
stopping only to nibble geraniums.
He streaked across the hemisphere. His whole body was aglow
There were thousands of reports that night of a reindeer shaped UFO.
He found a dejected Santa, hitchhiking on the outskirts of Belair.
Rudolf landed right beside him, which gave Santa quite a scare.
"Hop on my back, you drunken bum! We've got work to do.
Christmas is almost here again. No more crappy holidays for you!"
The last was seen of Santa, he was whooping in delight
But alas, there were no presents delivered to anyone on Christmas Eve night
We could attribute this to trauma or Santa feeling glum
But in all likelihood, some idiot at the the first house visited,
instead of cookies, left Santa a bottle of rum.

There you have it once again.   As you can tell, these poems are works of fiction.  There are many factual errors including that Santa, in real life, doesn't drink and isn't heavily armed and certainly he would feed his elves and the elves love the reindeer and would die for them before they'd kill and eat them, like savages.  Other than that I think the facts are fairly close to reality, of a down and out Santa, and a loyal servant reindeer who wants nothing more than to fly again.   Wink, wink.


  1. Sometimes fiction is truer than we realise...
    And, if I could fly, I would find it hard to give it up.

    1. I want to fly, without the burden of an airplane, the ticket costs, the line waits, luggage and all the add on fees. I just want to fly, simply fly. Not sure how it would work, but I want it.

  2. Santa does so drink. Instead of milk, one year I left him a bottle of beer and he took it. So there.

    1. Say it isn't true, Andrew. (by the way, that rhymes) My Santa is true blue and pure, and would never drink. He has dimpled cherry red cheeks too and is kind of like God, absolutely perfect, with no flaws whatsoever, except he's super fat and extremely wealthy.

  3. I only like happy endings... (not very realistic, am I?)

    1. Just a dreamer, and glad we have those!