Friday, Dec. 17, 2004 - 5:05 P.M.

�Twas mere days before Christmas
And I was but a small child
Hopped up on candy and full of joy for the season
Running �round the house all crazy and buck wild

My brother and I were like little sugar gnomes
Bounding through this house so full of Christmas spirit
My mother and father were busy hauling in the tree
While carolers sang outside--oh, can�t you just hear it?!

When suddenly from the hallway
A great noise pierced the cold, hollow night
My brother and I flew to the living room
Only to be greeted with a most amusing sight.

Our father had chosen the most humongous of trees
Surely more than a little money had been spent
He explained how he just knew it to be the one and
How enamored was he of fullness and fragrant pine scent

Oh Hell! Oh Screw it! Oh Stupid motherfu--! Oh Shit!
Oh Christ! Oh Fucker of hell! Oh ass--! Oh Dammit!

I don�t care, rot on the porch! Just sit out here then! Fine!
You see, it was full and unwieldy as he had already cut the twine.

As a cobra will spit to let you know what is to come
And a rattler will shake to give you a warning
My father cursed that tree for hours and still hours more
Truly, it seemed to us, straight on till morning

And then, blessedly, into the house it came
As my mother and I set about preparing the perfect spot
My father and brother covered the floor with newspaper
All the better to kill a perfect tree with 1970s spray can flock(ing)

He was prepared well, my father, all ready and equipped
And with his gloves and his painter�s mask at the ready
He shook the can and began the process, up and down,
Back and forth in a swaying motion, slow, and steady

All was going swimmingly, the tree was becoming white
The rest of us were busy testing out the lights
He was focused and concentrated so on his work
And then, the can, she gave out with one last spurt
We all held our collective breath, this was to be bad
You had never seen such immediate anger as that of our Dad
He shook the can, no doubt his brain screamed, �No!�
�How will I flock this stupid tree without the fake snow?�

He could not believe this was happening
And though he had many more cans of this stuff
He picked up that tree and hurled it right out the window
Turned on his heel and stalked about with great huff.

Very shortly thereafter the doorbell rang out with its tone
Of chiming bells so appropriate for this, the season
Who was to be calling now, we wondered,
Whatever could be the reason?

A man, our neighbor, stood there on our front porch
With great effort and both his hands, he held our half flocked tree
He did not smile, he did not dispense pleasantries, he grimaced,
Our tree had entered his kitchen window and landed at his knee

�Merry Christmas. Here�s your fucking tree. Now, who�s going to fix my damn window?�

All apologies to Clement Clarke Moore. But that my friends? Is a very true story.

You Give Me Fervor - Friday, Feb. 17, 2006
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I'm Not Dead - Tuesday, Jan. 10, 2006
Ebert And Roeper? Watch Your Backs. - Tuesday, Nov. 29, 2005
Coffee? Tea? Map? - Monday, Nov. 07, 2005

� Purplecigar

�

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