Saturday, December 15, 2012

Have a Politically Correct Christmas

NOTE:  Even though I'm done with the major gorilla work of destroying the kitchen (and the professionals are here to fix the damage), I'm still churning out reposts like Hollywood sequels (Rocky XXXV: Eye of the Catheter).  And, even though I have time to write new material now, I still like to torment you with things you've seen before ad nauseam (like American Idol).  I have included some new lines to this, but it's basically the same crap as last year.  And the year before that.
NOTE #2:  Of course, if the Mayans are right, then this whole Christmas thing is moot.  Like typewriters.  And George Bush.

"Tapioca's mine, Grandma."

Have a Holly Jolly, Politically Correct Christmas
C. Clement Moore (?)

With apologies to Major Henry Livingston, Jr.:*
"No, I'm not that A-Hole, Moore.  You'll find out why below."
Twas the Night Before December 25th

‘Twas the night before December 25th, when all through the place of residence (be it house, teepee, shopping cart, or refrigerator carton).
Not a creature was stirring, not even a sentient life form known as a rodent (which has every right to live wherever it chooses).
The government-issued condoms were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that a federal official soon would be there.

The children of the multi-diverse family unit were nestled by Family Services all snug in their beds,
while visions of non-dairy, non-sugar, non-peanut, non-caffeine, non-fat, non-transfats, non-threatening tofu plums danced “With the Stars” in their heads.
And my life partner in a hyperbaric chamber and I in my neoprene bubble
had drifted to sleep, with nary any trouble.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed (which I selfishly bought at IKEA while millions slept on grates), to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I feared that I’d spy
A Weiner, a Beiber, that Chaz Bono “guy.”

The moon, on the Janet Jackson breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the luster of midday to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a “little people” sleigh and eight height-challenged reindeer.

With a stature-limited seasoned-citizen driver, so lively and quick,
I knew it must be that Person of Androgynous Reknown, Nikita or Nick.
More rapid than endangered eagles, her/his coursers they came
and she/he whistled and shouted and called them by name (though not as subservients; rather as equals in the mutual exchange of commerce).

“Now Streaker! Lap Dancer!
Elton, you Prancer and Nixon!
Obama! Ted Danson!
On, Lindsay! Mel Gibson!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now, dash away, but only if you’re physically able and don’t feel threatened by it all!”

As dry leaves before the hurricane fly,
which plugs up the levees because Bush wants you to die,
so up to the subsidized housing the hoofed business partners flew,
with the sleigh full of sinful capitalist loot and Nikita/Nick, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, I turned and I saw
Nikita/Nick and her/his attorney-at-law.

She/he was dressed in synthetic fur, from her/his head to her/his foot,
and her/his clothes were all tarnished with the tracings of soot
 (a carcinogen which is a by-product of the evil roasting of our friends, the majestic trees).
A bundle of toys she/he had tossed in a sack
and I KNEW I was liable if she/he busted her/his back!

Her/his eyes--how they twinkled!  Her/his dimples, how merry!
Her/his cheeks like BOTOX balloons, her/his nose like a cherry!
It was obvious with him/her I should not be alone
this creepy, suspicious Sandusky clone.
Her/his droll little mouth was drawn up no, not in a frown
from some anonymous, “tsk-tsking” government clown.
The stump of a pipe she/he stuffed with some pot
she/he picked up in Seattle on her/his way to my lot.
She/he had a broad face and a little round belly
that shook when she/he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

(NOTE: the American Medical Association strongly urges a lifestyle free of “little round bellies”, as they may lead to diabetes, high blood pressure, tourettes, heart attack, an “unfresh” feeling, stroke, erectile dysfunction, skin rashes, halitosis, driving heavy equipment while drowsy, and rickets.  Well, maybe not erectile dysfunction, but do you want to take that chance?)

She/he was chubby and plump (see NOTE above), a right jolly old fairy/troll/forest nymph/dwarf/multi-diverse personage of varying-yet valuable-ethnic persuasion/wood sprite/Snooki/elf,
and I laughed when I saw her/him, in spite of myself (although, to avoid being sued, I said I was laughing “with”, not “at”, her/him).
A wink of her/his eye and a twist of her/his head
soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

She/he spoke not a word, but went straight to her/his work
and filled all the condoms when allowed by her/his attorney-the aforementioned jerk.
And laying her/his finger on the side (not in) of her/his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney/window/teepee smoke hole she/he rose.

She/he sprang to her/his sleigh, to her/his team gave a whistle,
and they mutually agreed in committee to fly away as equals like the down of a thistle.
But, I heard her/him exclaim, ‘ere she/he drove out of sight.

“Happy Non-Sectarian Day-of-Observance-Which-Has-Nothing-To-Do-With-An-Established-Creed-Or-Dogma-of-Faith-Because-That-Would-Be-a-Heinous-Violation-of-the-Sanctity-of-the-Separation-of-Church-and-State-Because-What-About-the-Children-Dammit!? and to all a mutually-satisfying (as agreed upon in writing. In triplicate. By the ACLU.) night!”    

    *Evidently, Clement Clark Moore is the 19th century equivalent of the New York Times’ Jayson Blair**.  A classic since its 1823 appearance in the Troy Sentinel, ‘A Visit From St. Nicholas’ (as it was alternately known) was claimed by Moore as his own in 1837, conveniently after Livingston had passed away.  In fact, Moore, who wasn’t known by any other poem, incorporated the work into one of his own books, Poemsin 1844!  So, the next time you’re tempted to fret and bemoan our lack of journalistic scruples, just remember Moore’s response when asked if he had, indeed, written this most-famous of Yuletide poems:  “Uh, yeah, whatever.”
    Or, so I’ve read on the Internet.  Because, after all, if it’s there, it must be true! 

**As this is a repost of a repost, the inclusion of Jayson Blair may leave you scratching your head.  Mr. Blair was pinched several years ago for being a plagiarist.  A plagiarist, of course, is someone who tries to pawn off someone else’s work as his own without giving credit to the actual author.  You know, a lot like Joe Biden.  There, how ‘bout that?  Timely and funny.
"Well, at least I didn't say I invented the Internet."


  1. Yeah but Al Gore really DID invent the internet. That was really, really, good. I don't know how to feel about that one. Glad the kitchen, or at least your part in that Hell, is over.

    1. This is the first weekend that doesn't hold out out the promise of a sore back. Merrrryyyyy Christmas!!!!

  2. It's not gorilla work unless you're thumping your chest. Isn't a Beiber a type of Weiner or have I got them the wrong way round?

    1. I did thump my chest. And fling suitcases around.

  3. Replies
    1. I hope so. PC silliness makes things easy.

  4. haha always fun picking at the dumb PC, and also nice of you to throw in the warning at your sea.

    1. Oh, don't you see?
      The holidays bring out
      the snarky in me.

  5. The mayans didn't predict the end of the world, this is just an end of a time period. Like how 2000 was a big deal to us.

    1. I have always said (well, for the past 11 months) that I have serious problems with the Mayans' credibility. Those feather-wearing knuckleheads couldn't even predict the coming of the Spaniards.
      And now we're supposed to believe they knew when the world would end?
      I think they just ran out of rock.

  6. As a repost this is great Al because I'm unfamiliar with it, I have no issues with your reposts because an Al post I've read ten times is better than some posts I've read a lot, great post as always buddy.

    1. Thanks for that, Matthew. Unless the Mayans are correct, new posts will be on their way after New Year's. For instance, I have a picture of Queen Victoria on delayed post until the 5th (it's called "Victoria's Secret").

  7. Every line evokes hysteria, Al. I must return to read in more detail. For now: I GOT IT! I GOT IT! Any new follower will be met by a shag carpet toilet. Woohoo! We'll see what that does for my following. In the meantime, thanks again for all your support. I hope you're feeling better.


    1. Thank you very much for that, Robin. I'm not 100%, but I'm a lot closer. Good news on the kitchen front: The washer and dryer are hooked up.

  8. I did not recall this from last year! Great piece of work!!! lol

    1. Actually, that's good that you didn't, so it's new to you.
      BTW, I have a post dedicated to you after the new year.

  9. Oh god, this was as hilarious to read as it was painful. I lost it when I got to the medical warning.

    1. It was difficult to write. I am not near the poetic talent that Pat Hatt and the cat are in Rhyme Time.
      If you don't follow him, give the cat and he a look.

  10. ROFLMAO!! This is priceless!!!