‘Twas the night before Christmas and I was at home, totally alone, and writing a poem. The house is a mess. I don’t really care. My friends coming over, can lick my…
Christmas balls, brownies and cranberry dips! The beer tastes so good when the head hits your lips! There will be shots of tequila! Rum and eggnog! Ensuring this night that we’ll sleep like Yule logs.
The house has a chimney where squirrels once nested, baby squirrels rained down, and my patience was tested. So I installed a cage to keep the rats out, a cage that’s likely to make Santa shout.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT?!?!” the old man might yell, frightening the reindeer who will jingle their bells, before flying away and stranding St. Nick, who will stand there dumbfounded, feeling like a dick.
With the chimney shut tight, and the reindeer aflight, Santa will sneak like a thief in the night, to my back door and let himself in, and that’s when he’ll hear it: The sounds of our sins:
Laughter and swearing and off-color joking. Eating and drinking and probably smoking. The Mowgli’s, Cake, Of Monsters and Men. Walk the Moon, Volbeat, and Radiohead. Imagine Dragons, Beck, and Lana Del Ray. Childish Gambino and then Hot Chelle Rae.
“Holy shit, Hot Chelle Rae!” Santa will say. “This song’s gayer than Freddie Mercury’s pants!” before involuntarily starting to dance.
He’ll stomp down the stairs to my basement bar, but no one will notice; we’re not seeing far.
Faster than magic reindeer, his angry voice will come, and he’ll scowl and he’ll point and make us feel dumb: “Now, Scott! Now, Angel! Now, David and Connie! On, Joel! On, Mindy! On, Pam and on Johnny!”
He’ll flash a quick smile, do a quick whirl, point right at me, and wink at the jewelry store girl.
“The idiot reindeer left and now I’m in trouble, please pour me a drink, in fact, make that a double!”
Obliging the man, I’ll pour a tall glass. “I can control time! I’m getting drunk off my ass!”
His eyes will not twinkle though his dimples will be merry. His cheeks—like roses. His nose? Like a cherry.
We’ll party. We’ll laugh. We’ll dance and we’ll sing. Only God knows what the evening will bring.
“Sonofabitch! Would you look at the time! Lord, where are my reindeer? Please show me a sign.”
And just then on the stereo—Bullet for my Valentine.
Santa will slam down his drink with a thunderous THRAP. “Happy birthday, Jesus! I hope you like crap!”
He’ll stand up and stumble—a drunken Kriss Kringle. Scott will leave early; his keys, he will jingle.
The noise will draw reindeer back to my home; and here I thought I’d spend this evening alone.
We’ll laugh and we’ll hug and become Facebook friends, then he’ll climb in his sleigh where the time always bends.
He’ll put his hands on my shoulders: “Thanks for the shots. You’ve been naughty this year. But when have you not?”
I’ll shrug and I’ll nod because that’s what I do.
“Look under your tree. I left you a few.”
The magic is back, this Christmas, you see, with the promise of treasures in 2014.
If the presents are late or the gifts too confusing, I apologize, sincerely, for adult-drink abusing.
A visit from Santa. A visit from friends. An abundance of blessings where fun never ends.
Be thankful for fun and for laughs and for life. Be thankful for friends, your family, your wife. Be thankful for children, for adventure—live free. Be thankful for wine and barrel-aged whiskey.
I’m thankful for you. You give my life light.
Merry Christmas, everyone. Please have a fun night.