Monday, December 24, 2012

They sent the same fucking card last year


















'Twas the night before staycation, when all through the books
Not a patron was stirring, not even that crook,
She tried to hire a hitman without a care
In hopes that workers would soon be buried there;

Said peons were nestled blank in their internets
Exhausted from scowling like Plantagenets
at fools, middle management; how 'bout a night cap
Or five until I get home for an old man nap?

When out in the stacks there arose such a clatter,
We sprang from our chairs to see what was the matter.
Away to the mold we flew like Gordon, Flash;
Not the serial but the camp, trainwreck crash.

The fluorescent lights, yellow like dog-marked snow,
Gave a lustre of wise to bestsellers below,
When what to our wondering eyes did appear,
But a wizard van in a cosmic veneer!

With a stoned, greasy driver that was not Bear,
We wondered how the hell he got up the stair.
More rapid fire than Judas Priest they came,
Throwing horns, he shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Jimi! now, Ritchie! now Tony and Eddie!
On, Harris! on, Burton! on Pike and Ozzy!
To the top of the glass! through the concert hall!
Now smoke away! drink away! burn away all!"

As tokes that before the wild truncheon fly,
When they meet with the fuzz and riff to the sky;
So out of the speakers the music it flew
With the bong full of woo, and every bottle too—

And then, in disbelief, we heard on the roof
A thunderous chord like the fourth horseman's hoof.
As we drew in our heads, and were turning around,
Down the elevator he came with a bound.

He was dressed all in robes, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with opium soot;
A bundle of wands he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a smoker just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they frightened! his dimples, how scary!
His cheeks were like corpses, his wart like a Lemmy!
His marvelous spells he began to weave,
And the beard on his chin was as long as the eve;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his gums,
Whose acrid funk burned like a stomach sans Tums;
He had a gaunt face even Death could not curb
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of herb.

He was skeletal but alive, a right jolly burnout,
Whether corn chips or the arcane, had much clout;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Laying Marshall stacks that would curse every jerk.
And pushing the button, and wiping his nose,
Giving a nod, in the elevator he rose.

Turning the key, the stoner cranked the speakers loud,
And away he flew, barreling through the crowd.
But we heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and don't forget to light!”

12 comments:

Prunella Vulgaris said...

HOORAY!

Demeur said...

Hey you stole my idea!

I guess sick minds think alike. :-)

Randal Graves said...

Hooray's not here, man.

He who posts firsts wins the interwebs!

ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

Fourth!

What do I win?
~

Beach Bum said...

Had to steal this phrase from one of my favorite movies but it seems to fit. "The Dude abides."

Randal Graves said...

if, if you can be closest without going over, a year's supply of Turtle Wax, a box of Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco treat, and a version of our home game.

BB, someone spraypainted that on a building near the Slab. That building has been Dresdened. Sniff.

S.W. Anderson said...

Randal, I've finally figured you out. You're the inverse of Walt Disney — minus the multi-billion-dollar entertainment empire, of course.

Be that as it may, have a merry and a happy, with minimal hangover. ;)

susan said...

An excellent story that made me feel as though I was there; I'm glad I wasn't. I wish you weren't.

Life As I Know It Now said...

what a cleaver elf you are! :)

Randal Graves said...

SWA, I could probably do without cryogenically frozen heads and antisemitism, too.

susan, wha? Wizard vans that house interstellar magicians, and Legos, are what every kid wants.

life, Freudian slip? I don't even own a cleaver, though we've got one of those giant butcher knives.

zencomix said...

Merry Christmas Mr Potter!

Tom Harper said...

You can take my cleaver when you pry it from my cold dead child.