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It's Christmas Eve!

A modern take on a classic poem.

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It's Christmas Eve! Your stockings are hung as quiet as a mouse, your wife is a goose, and the children are getting fat. Tiny tots being sung by a choir are roasting over an open fire, while visions of visions dance in your gumdrops, hoping Lord Santa will be there soon.

You are snug in your bed, with your cap, because you love to take a Christmastime nap. Nothing is stirring, not even a mug.

"Clatter clatter clatter! Thumpity thump thump!" yells the lawn.

"Better go see what the matter is, with the clatter!" you exclaim, hopping out of your bed.

"Honk," retorts your wife, who is a goose.

You sprint to your window as quick as a mouse, to look out at your lawn, all a-clatter. You break through your Christmastime window with your hand, as your eyes follow the falling snow to the land.

Lit by the glow of the holiday light is a thing that is really a sight. It's a big hunk of rusty trash with 3 bad deer pulling it! As the legend says, "Dread Lord Santa will arrive on a big hunk of rusty trash pulled by 3 bad deer." This must mean the war criminal, Santa, is here!

The deers's eyes are puffy and they breathe out grey smoke. But where is the Christmastime goon we all know?

You dash out of the house and the snow is cold on your bare feet. Not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of the Deer of Death, you trudge on.

"Where is the man we all love to call Dread Lord Santa?" you scream to the deer, as loud as a mouse.

"Hogh Hogh Hogh!" you hear from the roof. It's Dread Lord Santa! He exists, it's the truth!

Decked from head to toes with skin from a deer, you know that Lord Santa is truly here. He jumps down from the roof and breaks both his legs.

"I thought you were a myth!" you say to the elf.

"You know," he replies, "I often wish that myself. It's hard to be a man whom everyone despises. It's really bad and I hate it a lot. Every year I have to bring terrible gifts to everyone's houses. People find all sorts of bad gifts scattered around, like soggy blue cheese crumbles, owl pellets, and scraps of copper wire, all wrapped in newspaper and tape. People hate to open the gifts and I hate to make the gifts. I don't even make the gifts anymore. I have thousands of strange men make them. I don't know where they came from. They live in my house at the North Pole, which is the coldest place in the history of the Earth. They live on cookies and milk and smell like trash. Their ears are pointy like pencils. It hurts to touch their ears. And they're very tall. I abhor the tall men who make the gifts that everyone hates to open. Everything is bad at the North Pole, the worst place on Earth.

"Then there's my wife. She's bad as well, and I love her to death. Every year she tells me that I have too many deer and that I only focus on making terrible presents and never think about her. What she doesn't know is that if I stop making gifts, the Christmastime spirits will take her away from me. It is all for her. I love the awful scoundrel who is married to me. The Christmastime spirits make me do everything for her and she hates me for it. Some day, I will devise a plan to make everyone believe in me and drive the awful Christmastime spirits. Then I will stop leaving these terrible gifts in everyone's houses, and we can all go back to normal Christmas traditions, like Pin the Tail on the Dog, Table-Building Hour, and School Bus Rides, and my wife will love me again. It will be the best. But not yet. Not yet."

With a dejected sigh he looks toward his legs, which he broke when he fell off the house.

"Oh well," he mutters, as he limps toward his hunk of trash, "I hope your Christmas is good."

"Yours too," you say, before immediately regretting what you said. You watch as he slides his broken legs over the hunk of rusty trash.

"On Dasher! On Phlunchiss! On Santa!" he says to his bad deer. "To another year of being the world's worst man."

You watch as Dread Lord Santa's big hunk of rusty trash creates sparks as it slowly ambles down the road. Your feet, still bare in the snow, are cold as a mouse. As you walk your numb feet back into the house to rejoin your goose-wife in bed, you think "At least I'm not that guy."

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