BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

“Twas the Night Before Christmas, 21^st Century Edition”

Copyright © 2006, M. R. Sellars

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.

Her wet stockings were hung in the bathroom with care,

My razor was dull and full of her leg hair.

My wife was nestled all snug in our bed,

While visions of shoe sales danced in her head.

When out in the living room there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my keyboard to empty my bladder.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But some fat S.O.B. drinking my last beer.

His eyes were unfocused, and his cheeks were a-flush,

I could tell at a glance that Santa was a lush.

His knees how they wobbled as he finished with a slurp,

Then he got up from his chair and let out a burp!

“Hi there, young fella,” he said with a *hic*

“Best get outta my way, I think I’m gonna be sick!”

He rushed to the bathroom and I heard my wife scream,

Seems she was in there and didn’t think this too keen.

What was next to occur was kind of a shock,

I found her pummeling Santa with our new alarm clock!

“Hey honey, chill out!” I said with a start.

“Surely you don’t wanna kill the old fart!”

“Look lady,” Santa cried as he lurched and careened,

“I only got airsick ’cause I forgot my Dramamine!”

“So you’re NOT just some drunk?” I asked as he scratched his crotch.

“Of course not,” he replied, “But I WILL take a Scotch!”

“And to show there’re no hard feelings,” he chortled with glee,

“Tell me what is it you’d like to find under your tree.”

I took a sharp breath, and held it inside,

Santa you fool, you’d better run and hide.

You’ve asked the wrong question, instead of the right,

And now you’re gonna be here the rest of the night.

My wife’s eyes sparkled, teeth showing as she grinned,

And the next thing I knew she had the guy pinned!

Catalogs flew, and flyers they fluttered,

Creating immediately a large pile of clutter.

Santa couldn’t move and his eyes filled with fright,

Seeing her chance my redhead squealed with delight!

“Some diamonds and pearls, from this place and that!

Some pumps and some boots, and maybe a hat!”

She ran down her list in a voice filled with glee,

All I could think was “I’m glad it’s not me!”

Santa wriggled and squirmed as she sat on his chest,

Then he shouted and hollered, “Hey, give it a rest!”

But my wife wasn’t finished, that much I knew,

For she held that elf down and started anew.

“Sapphires and rubies, and rings of white gold,

I don’t even care if they’re new or they’re old!

A black leather jacket and a skirt that goes with it,

Matching gloves and a gift card that spends without limit!

A full length fur coat, synthetic of course,

Hey! Are you taking this down? Don’t make me use force!”

The old guy kept kicking, and somehow broke free,

How he managed to do so was way beyond me.

But my redhead was behind him as he sprang for the door,

While she screamed, “No, don’t leave now, for I want so much more!”

Santa ran through my yard as though he were scared,

And I can’t say I blamed him, for I doubted I’d be spared.

He hollered, as he raced, his words not too thrilling,

In fact I must say they were in all senses chilling.

With what he said, I had no choice but to agree,

For she was all wound up and he was leaving her with me.

Now here’s the last thing I heard, as he fled from this strife,

“I’d stay for that scotch, but I’m afraid of your wife!”

Sometimes, it is the little things in life that are the trigger…

For me, I think there are several of those little things, but among them is the wonderful, fattening, artery clogging, Egg Nog.

It doesn’t matter what sort of decorations appear on homes, in yards, at the mall, or anywhere else. Commercials on TV don’t hold a candle to it. Even Santa riding across the snowy hills on a Norelco ™ electric razor…(Yeah, unfortunately I am old enough to remember that when it originally aired…) Music, yeah whatever. Salvation Army buckets–here have some change, but it just ain’t doing it for me. Yule tree–pretty, but so what…

But, Egg Nog…Now there you have it. For me, the holidays have officially arrived when Egg Nog appears on the grocery store shelves (which it has been doing earlier and earlier every year…)

Now, I need to point out a couple of things. Yes, I do purchase commercial Egg Nog. Yes, I do doctor it with libations from the over 21 cabinet. However, commercial Egg Nog is by far an inferior product to the good old homemade “boiled custard” I fondly recall from my youth. I remember watching my grandmother (I called her Gram) and my mother standing at the stove, carefully and constantly stirring the nectar as it heated, thickened, and turned from mere milk, eggs, sugar, etc, into the drink that brings good cheer…

I, of course, have the family recipe deeply ingrained in my memory, and have, from time to time, emulated that scene, making a batch of the Holiday Indulgence for family and friends. Unfortunately, I don’t always have the time necessary to do it properly…And, when making good old fashioned Southern boiled custard, one cannot rush…

Two cartons of the commercial Nog have taken up residence in my refrigerator even as I type this. While they certainly aren’t “the real thing” in my way of mind, they are close enough to trigger the delightful memory…And, even though they just moved in, I suspect that a glass, some good Kentucky Bourbon, and I will be evicting them fairly soon…

Then, I guess some of their relatives will have to move in to fill the vacant spots…Temporarily, of course.

MR