Original humor & comedy articles daily weblog

Several Nights After Christmas…

Okay, look. people — I’m not proud of myself here.

Well, okay, I’m a little proud, but that’s not the point. This time.

The point is, I’ve never written something and posted it elsewhere — except at the erstwhile ezine Zoiks — and then posted it here, too. But I’m about to.

The good news, of course, is that you very likely didn’t see this when I plopped it online a few days ago. And now that it’s December, this shit is downright topical.

(Plus, my wife told me the other day that she thought we shouldn’t exchange presents this Christmas. That counts as ‘inspiration’, if nothing else. You can decide whether I’m being prophetic, or an asshole husband, or somewere in between.

Meantime, it gets me out of posting anything else tonight. So, enjoy.)

At any rate, here’s the item in question: a Christmas poem dragged screaming into the modern age. I hope you like it. And cheers to you, mistletoers.

Bankruptcy and Tinsel: A Christmas Tale in Three Acts

Act I: Wifey Awakens

Twas the night after New Years’,

when all through the flat

came the din and the ruckus

of a husband-wife spat.

It started when hubby

had finally dared

to open the bill

for the Visa they shared.

Wifey was nestled

all snug in her bed,

with new diamond earrings

affixed to her head.

She was freshly rubbed down

with expensive lotions and creams,

while her new Prada handbag

danced in her dreams.

When from the den

hubby made such a clatter,

she donned her new silken robe

to see what was the matter.

She arrived to find hubby’s

mood turning south;

tearing out his grey hairs

and throwing up in his mouth.

She rolled her eyes skyward

and asked, “What can it be?”

I’d just dozed off to the glow

of my new HDTV!”

Act II: Shopping Mall Roll Call

Hubby stared up at her,

with his anger and pains

pulled by a jumbo martini

and eight throbbing veins.

He ran to her side,

so lively and quick;

he lit into her,

and he laid it on thick.

More rapid than eagles

the store names they came,

And he frothed up and cursed them,

and called them by name:

“First Best Buy! Then Nordstroms!

Then Target and Sears!?!

Then Macy’s, Ann Taylor,

The Gap and DeBeers!?!

To the ends of the outlet!

To the back of the mall!

It’s cash away! Cash away!

Cash away, all!”

He showed her the bill,

with the bottom line swelling.

“Who are you, anyway —

Tori fucking Spelling?”

His eyes, how they blazed —

his breath shallow and heaving!

His ears were like smokestacks,

His brow furrowed and grieving!

Act III: Ho Ho Christmasy Ho

Hubby pleaded futilely:

“But… there was nothing to fear!

You said we shouldn’t exchange

Christmas presents this year!”

And then with a twinkle

like a right jolly old elf,

wifey proceeded to explain

her swag-buying self.

“You misunderstood me,

you silly Magoo!

I just meant I’m not buying

any presents for you.”

He spoke not a word

though he did almost smirk,

as his cheeks convulsed

in a spasmodic jerk.

And pressing his finger

tight to his forehead,

he pretended to shoot

and croaked, “Better off dead.”

Wifey sprang to her feet

and checked her new ladies Rolex,

wondering why they ever called

women the ‘weaker sex’.

“Oh, you!” she exclaimed,

“Don’t be so uptight.

Happy Christmas to me;

Now I say, sir, GOOD NIGHT!”

Well, I hope that was entertaining. And truly fictional, too. My wife is way less likely to spend frivolous money — holiday-grubbed or otherwise — than I am. Still, it’s a fun thought. And who wouldn’t want to star in their own holiday verse, eh?

Merry Grinchy thrifty holidays, people. ‘Tis the motherfuckin’ season. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.