Twas the Nucking Futty Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through our pad,
Every creature was stirring, being exceptionally bad.
The stockings were hung too close to the floor,
And demon dog was eating each one that he tore. 

The twins were bouncing off the walls in their rooms,
Just thinking about making their new Mario Kart zoom.
Hubby in holey boxers and I in my nightie,
Had just poured a third glass of wine that was mighty.

When out on the roof came a crazy loud thump;
I told Hubby to check it out and to get off his rump.
He mumbled something about Sportscenter and checking a score,
So away to the window I frustratingly tore.

The moon shined bright on the freshly packed snow;
The dog poop had been covered, I could see in the glow.
When what to my intoxicated eyes should appear,
But a big ass sleigh and eight smelly reindeer.

A festively plump driver who was anything but quick,
Was a loud and clear signal that this was St. Nick.
Slower than molasses, his antlered slaves came,
And he bitched and he moaned and he called them by name:

“Damnit Dasher!  Damnit Dancer!
Damnit Prancer and Vixen!
S.O.B. Comet!  S.O.B. Cupid!
S.O.B. Donner and Blitzen!
Get your asses up here
And you better make it snappy!
Do I look like I’m kidding?
Do I look like your Pappy?”

As a football team likes to huddle pre-game,
They banded together and argued about fame.
Then up to the roof-top those crazy deer flew,
With that shit-ton of toys and St. Nicholas too.

I wanted to scream as they stomped on our roof,
Just imagine all the damage from those damn reindeer hooves.
I pounded my fists and tried counting to ten,
But St. Nick squeezed his ass down the chimney just then.

He was huffing and puffing from the hot fur of his suit,
And it smelled like he’d stepped in some poop with his boot. 
A backpack of toys really weighed down his rear,
And he looked like he could use a really cold beer.

His eyes – how they drooped.  His unibrow, how scary!
And with the hair on his lip, he looked like Aunt Mary.
The scowl on his mouth said he would sure like to quit,
And you could tell that he really was just sick of this shit. 

When he pulled out that pipe and started to smoke,
Well, I wanted to grab his fat neck and just choke.
He had pink chubby cheeks and a rounded booze belly,
That rumbled around like a HUGE vat of jelly. 

He was an overweight mess, this tired old dude,
How did Mrs. Claus stand his bad attitude?
He flipped me off and told me to get lost,
He was in a huge hurry and might have been sauced. 

He didn’t say much more as he got down to biz,
Shoving crap in our stockings and even taking a whiz.
Then burping three times and doing a jig,
He rose up the chimney with a beer and a swig.  

He hopped in his ride and called to his posse,
And away they all flew with their bearded old bossy.
But I heard him exclaim just before out of reach, 

“Happy Christmas assholes! I’m hittin’ the beach!”

 

MAY ALL YOUR HOLIDAYS BE HAPPY & FULL OF GOOD DRINKS!  CHEERS!

Stretching the Holiday Truth

     I swear I feel like half the crap I try to feed my kids while I’m doing this parenting gig comes right back to bite me in the ass.  And with Christmas and all its many, many far-fetched ideas, it becomes even more difficult to try to explain myself.  Deer that fly, a sleigh that miraculously fits ALL the toys for every kid in the friggin’ universe, a rather large man squeezing himself down the super skinny chimney — it’s all pretty far out there if you really stop and think about it.  So, throughout this holiday season, I’ve found myself on multiple occasions trying to come up with a logical explanation for a highly illogical concept.

     Scenario Number One: two of Santa’s reindeer miraculously showed up at a landscaping/pet shop near us a few weeks back.  My kids must’ve asked me ten thousand questions about these two antlered-eared deer for which I had to REALLY dig deep into my big bag of bullshit to try to answer.  They had a sign up that said “Only Santa’s elves are allowed to feed the reindeer” — so how was I supposed to explain why we saw two of the store’s employees (who most certainly looked NOTHING like elves) feeding the damn deer?! Could they not have at least thrown on some flipping green tights and pointy toed shoes?  And to make matters worse, the stupid asshats at this store took it upon themselves to proudly display the names of these two reindeer who were named anything BUT Comet, Cupid or Donner.  They had names like Sasha and Donald. Seriously, people, WTF?! Would it really have killed these jackbutts to at least fake that these were two of Santa’s real deal sleigh drivers?!  

     Scenario Number Two: for years I have harped on the idea that Santa has magical powers and oversees little elves who can make any and every toy.  Well, someone should’ve told me to put a damn sock in it, because, naturally, this, too, has come back to haunt me. Lately, my kids have decided to try and make last minute additions to their Christmas wishlists, without any concern whatsoever that it might not be enough notice  for poor “Santa” to make these said items happen. When I tried to confront them about this very topic, they simply told me that Santa can make miracles happen and that it wouldn’t be a problem at all for him to hear about a few add-ons.  I just silently kick my ass as I listen to their logic, because I know that I’m the dumbass who filled their little heads with this crap in the first place.  I may need to come up with some concocted story about Santa’s workshop being closed now for gift wrapping.  I’ve already made a whole shit ton of outrageous claims — surely I can come up with some more, right?

     The older they get, the more they’re gonna realize that all of the wonders of Christmas really make them wonder about just what in the hell their mom and dad have really been trying to pull.  With every make-believe idea that comes out of my mouth, I cross my fingers that they don’t call me out.  When they finally do find out the truth, I just hope they don’t think I’m a hypocrite for telling them that lying is bad and then turning around and telling them that yes, a man who’s a bazillion miles away can really see when they draw on the furniture.

The Christmas Brick

     The day my kids stop believing in Santa will be a day that physically hurts my heart because I know that little by little from that point on, their innocence will be slowly fading away.  I can remember exactly when I stopped believing as a little girl.  Thanks to some punk-ass blabber mouths at school and a Santa with his head up his jolly old keister, my childhood faith in the magic of Christmas was crushed like a candy cane.

     Growing up, I always LOVED Christmas.  I absolutely loved the idea of Santa and all the wonder surrounding him.  So, when some of the kids at school really started talking trash about the big man, I tried like hell to block out all their comments.  I didn’t want to buy into this whole idea that it was really just our parents buying all that crap for us.  As much as I tried, though, some of these accusations were sinking in, and I, too, started to question whether this one guy could really deliver ALL those presents to ALL those kids in just one flipping night.  My suspicions were finally confirmed when a Santa hired by my parents made a pre-Christmas stop at our house that year.

     I was so excited when I answered the door that night to find a red-suited dude with a beard standing right there on our very own porch.  I breathed a sigh of relief that maybe all those yahoos at school really were just messing with me.  He ho-ho-ho’d his way into our living room with his big bag full of gifts and made himself right at home on our loveseat.  As he reached into his bag of tricks, my heart skipped a beat in anticipation of what he’d pull outta there for little ’ol me.  But what he pulled out only caused my brain to wonder just what in the hell this North-Poled nitwit had been smoking before he flew into town.

     The merry old fool had mistakingly thought that the wrapped boxes my mom had displayed on the front porch FOR DECORATION were presents that he was supposed to bring inside for me.  The jackass had the audacity to try to pass off one of these said boxes to me! I instantly recognized the wrapping paper and the bow and knew that the only thing inside that box was a brick to weigh it down.  Was this moron actually trying to give me a concrete slab as a gift?  I looked first at my mom and then at my dad for some sort of reassurance that this was all just a great big joke.  Their horrified looks weren’t doing much to ease my anxiety, though.  Either this man had lost his damn mind, I had been a really really naughty girl, or my parents really were Santa Claus after all. 

     After he left our house, my parents scrambled for some sort of an explanation and simply told me that Santa had sent one of his helpers since he was so swamped with toy orders, and that this guy had obviously gotten confused about the gifts.  I didn’t really buy it though and never truly believed in the legend much more after that night.  And now that I’m a parent myself, I can’t stand the thought of this same scenario playing out with my own kids.  I think I’ll start bribing all their friends now to keep their little traps shut about the real deal.  So what if I’ve got the only sixteen year old twins who still listen for reindeer hooves on the roof and wait for a fat man to pop out of the chimney?  Aren’t the holidays a whole lot happier if you at least have faith in something?

The Elf On The Shelf

     

     For the past few years in our house, we’ve looked forward to a visit from none other than the “elf on the shelf”.  Are you familiar with these little dudes?  They are the cash-flowing creation of a freaking genius of a woman, and for $29.95 (plus shipping & handling) these little dolls will fly all the way from the North Pole to your humble abode for the whole month of December.  They’re like Santa’s shrimp-sized spies, reporting back to the head honcho each and every night about who’s being good & who’s being a little shit.  They are also known as B-R-I-B-E-R-Y for parents at this very stressful time of year.

     Our little pointed toe fairy first came to us back in December of 2007.  My kids decided to name him Clyde, and for the past two years, old Clyde’s been racking up the frequent flier miles between our house & Santa’s pad.  Each morning my kids practically pee their pants with excitement to find out just where Clyde is hiding.  You see, night after night, it’s up to the parents to find a new hiding spot for Clyde. And if you forget, you better think fast on your feet, or best believe, you are screwed. Your kids will surely notice that the elf is in the exact same spot as the day before.  How do I know this?  It’s because I can’t tell you how many times we’ve dropped the ball and have had to suddenly send the short people upstairs so that one of us can scramble around and move the damn elf doll.  Luckily, our kids are young enough that we can still pull this whole smoke and mirror tactic on them.  We could say, “Look kids, there’s a spaceship on the lawn,” and haul ass to move that little sucker before they would even turn their heads back from the window.

     I must say that Clyde and his magical bad ass have more than earned their keep around here.  On many occasions, all I’ve had to do is point to his tiny perch, and my kids instantly think twice about what they’re doing. They know that he’s taking mental notes all day long to give the boss all the dirt on them.  You gotta love that kind of power. He’s like the eyes and ears for the Don Corleone of all gifts.  I can’t decide if I have a crush on him or if I wanna rip his throat out cause I’m jealous of him. Maybe we’ll sort it all out when we go out for drinks next weekend.  I hear he’s a lightweight, so maybe I can get him to spill some of his secrets after a few cocktails.

     For now, all I know is that that pint-sized pixie better hurry up and get his spy on cause I’m losing my marbles trying to keep these kids of mine in line.  All the excitement over the holidays has them bouncing off the freaking walls.  My daughter even openly admitted to me last night that “it’s really hard to be good every day.”  So, I’m not ashamed to admit that I need all the help I can get throughout these next twenty-five days of craziness.  I wish I could talk Clyde into just staying the whole year through, but I don’t think I can really compete with the eleven month vacation the fat man promises him in return for all his hard work.