Thursday, December 4, 2014

'Twas the Night of the Living Dead Before Christmas

To resurrect your Halloween spirit during this nauseatingly wholesome Christmas season, here's an apocalyptic spin on Clement C. Moore's 'Twas the Night Before Christmas:

Listen, dear children, and I’ll tell you a story.
Stay away if you’re squeamish – it is rather gory.

During Santa’s last round-the-world flight,
his magical sleigh hit a rogue satellite.
The poisonous gas killed him right quick
But soon he came back … as zombie St. Nick!

He crashed here in Pittsburgh, straight into our pool.
And that’s where I caught my first glimpse of the ghoul.
My neighbor, a surgeon, ran over to help.
What happened next caused me to yelp.
I watched from my room as the soggy old man
devoured the thumb of the doctor’s left hand!
Blood stained the mounds of glistening snow.
Santa moved forward, his gait staggered and slow.

The bewildered M.D. was no match for the beast.
Mister Claus grabbed his leg and started to feast.

Armageddon had started outside of our house,
yet I still couldn’t rouse my slumbering spouse.

Sheer panic set in and I ran for my life,
downstairs to the kitchen and grabbed a large knife.

I stood in the darkness, heart pounding with fear.
Outside I heard cries of eight, tiny reindeer.
The flesh-hungry elf ate Vixen and Comet.
By the time he reached Cupid, I was knee-deep in vomit.

Still clutching an antler, Santa broke down my door
and blazed a blood trail on my new tile floor!

I stabbed Ol’ Kriss Kringle with my stainless steel blade,
but he kept inching closer! His strength would not fade!

Beneath a mistletoe wreath I collected my breath
and tried to avoid Santa’s rank kiss of death.

I offered him cookies and a cup of eggnog
But Santa stared blankly, as if in a fog.

It hurt me to know he’d rather chew off my face
than eat gingerbread men by the warm fireplace.
“Hey, Santa!” I hollered. “This isn’t your scene!”
“You’re a symbol of Christmas, not Halloween!”

I flung ornaments at him but, just as I feared,
They hung festively in his downy, white beard.

I was about to become a cannibal snack,
when my husband woke up and waged an attack!
He cocked the gun coolly. Santa turned with a twitch.
“Go back to Hell, you fat son of a bitch!”

Six rounds were shot; each one of them missed.
St. Nick was unfazed. I was just pissed.

I grabbed the Yule log and swung it with ire
and knocked Santa’s ass right into the fire!

The flaming cadaver continued to strain,
so I drove a hot poker into its brain.

The house – it fell silent. Nobody spoke.
Father Christmas went up in a puff of black smoke.

I rushed to my love, embraced him and said,
“Next time, you jackass, just aim for the head!”

The old Santa is gone, be of good cheer.
I heard George Romero’s taking over this year!

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