’Twas the Night Before Christmas 2006

or

A Visit from Some Wacko

after Clement C. Moore

by Jeff Goode

copyright © 2006

Check this out:
It was the night before Christmas, right? Christmas eve.
And the whole house was dead as a dive bar on Sunday.
You coulda heard a mouse fart it was so quiet.
All the Christmas trimmings were up. The tree and the lights.
The stockings were hung next to the electric fireplace,
On the off chance Santa Claus found a way in without a chimney. Ha ha.

The kids had gone to bed like two hours ago.
Shot o’ rum in their cocoa goes straight to their heads. Their mom doesn’t need to know.
And I’m in my boxers,
and the old lady’s in an over-sized Kansas City Chief’s jersey and no panties
So we’re about to get down to a long winter’s bappity-bappity-bap,
if you know what I mean.
Things were about to get lively, real quick. Know what I’m sayin’? Ha!

When all a sudden there’s this huge racket out on the front lawn.
I sprang off my old lady to see what the hell’s going on.
Ran over to the window, whipped open the shutters and stuck my head out.

The moon shining down on the snow was so bright
That it looked like broad daylight against all that white.
So there I am, wondering, when what do I see?
A flying sled with eight little flying reindeer pulling it! Coming right at me!

And a little old driver who was spazzing out so bad I knew it had to be Santa Claus
And I know what you’re thinkin’, but, yeah, flying reindeer,
Soaring through the air like rockets — headed right for the house
And he’s screaming his head off trying to get them to pull up.

"Now Dasher! Now Dancer!
Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid!
On, Donner and Blitzen!
Look out for the porch
Don’t smash into the wall
Now dash away! Dash away!
God damn it all!"

Then just when I thought they were going to slam antler’s first into the new siding
A gust of wind blasted them up in the sky, sleigh and all.

Next thing I know I hear this god-awful crinkling of sleigh runners on shingles
And I swear to god — hoofbeats stamping around on my rooftop.
But as I pulled my head in the window I realized the pounding was getting louder and louder — Those aren’t hoofbeats, that’s a jackhammer! And boom! St. Nick comes crashing through the ceiling, and tumbles down the stairs onto my living room floor.

That fat bastard busted a hole in my ceiling because I have an electric fireplace!
And I just had the whole thing re-roofed last summer!
And he’s just laying there, laughing his blubbery ass off.
He’s covered in sawdust and debris head to toe.
And my wife, who’s in PETA takes one look at what he’s wearing
and starts screaming "Fur is murder! Fur is murder!"
The living room is covered in toys that spilled out of his huge pack.
He looked like a fucking vagrant lying flat on his back

He laid there and giggled like a fat fucking fairy
His ass cheeks exposed where his clothes had a tear in ‘em.
The drool from his mouth was as red as his cheeks
And I realized the fall must have cost him some teeth

Then he took out a pipe and he started to smoke
I said, "Man, what the fuck?" and I started to choke.
But he just ignored me and went straight to work
Sticking shit in our stockings. So I called him a jerk.

Then he turned and he smiled and gave me a nod
And puts his finger beside his nose
in what I can only assume is gay code for
"Meet me behind the 7-11 in five minutes."
And then up he goes through the hole in my recently renovated ceiling.

And as I’m standing there, watching him sail out of sight
Trying to decide whether to go to the 7-11 and beat the crap out of him.
I heard him say — swear to God —
"Merry Christmas to Allah, and to Allah a good night"
So now it all makes total sense.
Fucking terrorist.

© 2006 Jeff Goode - THIS SCRIPT IS COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL AND MAY NOT BE DOWNLOADED, TRANSMITTED, PRINTED OR PERFORMED WITHOUT THE EXPRESS PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR