I wrote a version of this several years (perhaps a decade) ago. So, I had to tweak it a little. Interestingly, the line about Joe Biden is just as it was. That demented muppet was comedy gold then; he remains comedy gold emeritus. I included Trump in this updated version, though, because, back in the good old days, he was just a big-mouth wealthy reality television guy.
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| "Misgender me, you little pricks and everyone gets coal! Or a Tesla truck." |
Have a
Holly Jolly, Politically Correct Christmas Holiday
By
C. Clement Moore (?)
With apologies to Major Henry Livingston, Jr.*:
'Twas the Night Before December 25th
‘Twas the
night before December 25th, when all through the house,
teepee, shopping cart, sidewalk, or refrigerator carton (who are you to judge? Hater.).
Not a
creature was stirring, not even a transgender rodent (which has every right to
live wherever it chooses, you racist).
Government-issued condoms were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes a federal official soon would be there.
The
children of our illegal immigrant family were nestled, snug in luxury hotel beds,
while
visions of non-dairy, non-sugar, non-peanut, non-caffeine, non-fat,
non-transfats, non-threatening non-taxed tofu plums danced “With the Stars” in
their heads.
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 North Carolinians slept in campers),
to see what was the matter.
Away to
the window I feared that I’d spy
Obama, Biden,
or that Maddow guy.
The moon,
on the Britney 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 Androgyny, Nikita, Nick...
or some
other such prick.
More rapid
than CVS looters, her/his/their coursers they came
and she/he/they
whistled and shouted and called them by name (though not as subservients;
rather as equals in the mutual exchange of commerce).
“Now Twerker!
Lap Dancer!
Lizzo, Prancer
and Nixon!
Obama! Ted
Danson!
On, Whoopi,
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 heaves
at drag story hour fly,
or budgets
cut because Republicans want you to die,
or on to
Ukraine…but Americans? FU!
with a sleigh
full of loot stolen from me and from you!
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/their attorney-at-law.
She/he/they
was dressed in synthetic fur, from her/his/their head to her/his/their foot,
and
her/his/their clothes were all tarnished with the tracings of soot on her/his/their
rump,
a
carcinogen and by-product of evil exploitation trees by Trump.
A bundle
of toys she/he had tossed in a sack
and I KNEW
I was liable if she/he/they busted her/his/their back!
But, there
was no worry, I had not a care!
Because she/he/they had Obamacare!
Which surely can
cure every ouchie
From cancer to pimples, but certainly not Fauci.
Her/his/their
eyes--how they twinkled! Her/his/their
dimples, how merry!
Her/his/their
cheeks like BOTOX balloons, her/his/their nose like a cherry!
It was
obvious with him/her/their I should not be alone
this
creepy, suspicious, this Biden clone.
Her/his/their
droll little mouth was drawn up in a smirk, not a frown
from some
anonymous, “tsk-tsking” government clown.
The stump
of a pipe she/he/their had just for effect
as she/he/their
showed me her/his/their nicotine patch on her/his/their neck.
She/he/they had a broad face and a little round belly
that shook
when she/he/they laughed, like a bowl full of KY Jelly.
(NOTE: the American Medical
Association strongly urges a lifestyle which eliminates the existence 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. But, hey, be as fat as a hog. You do you.)
She/he/they
were chubby and plump, a right jolly old fairy/troll/forest nymph/dwarf/Chris Christie/multi-diverse
personage of varying-yet valuable-ethnic persuasion/wood sprite/Oprah/elf,
and I
laughed when I saw her/him/they, in spite of myself (although, to avoid being
sued, I said I was laughing “with”, not “at”, her/him/they).
A wink of
her/his/their eye and a twist of her/his/their head
soon gave
me to know I had nothing to dread.
She/he/they
spoke not a word, but went straight to her/his/their work
and filled
all the condoms, when allowed by her/his/their attorney-the aforementioned
jerk.
The gifts,
she/he/they explained, were crafted by midgets
Err...”little
people” you over-sensitive fidgets.
To insult
them, she/he/they knew, will just make them sour
When,
after New Years, they return back to work
at
McDonalds for $15.00 an hour.
And laying
her/his/their finger on the side (not in) of her/his/their nose,
and giving
a nod, up the chimney/window/teepee smoke hole she/he/they rose.
She/he/they
sprang to her/his/their sleigh, to her/his/their team gave a whistle,
and they
mutually agreed in committee to fly as equals away like the down of a thistle.
But, I
heard her/him/them exclaim, ‘ere she/he/they 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.) with a frosty Bud Light!”
*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, Poems, in 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!
NOTE: I wrote this a long time ago (I updated it, but
didn’t feel like taking Blair out), so the inclusion of Jayson Blair may leave
you scratching your head. Mr. Blair was
pinched 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.
