Twas the night before Christmas

  • Thread starter Evo
  • Start date
  • #1

Main Question or Discussion Point

I know that here in the US the Christmas season doesn't officially start until the day after Thanksgiving, but they were playing Christmas music at the store yesterday and had all of the Christmas stuff out and it got me in a Holiday mood. :biggrin: This has been around a few years.

'Twas The Night Before Christmas

'Twas the nocturnal segment of the diurnal period preceding the

annual Yuletide celebration, and throughout our place of residence,

kinetic activity was not in evidence among the possessors of this

potential, including that species of domestic rodent known as Mus


Hosiery was meticulously suspended from the forward edge of

the wood burning caloric apparatus, pursuant to our anticipatory

pleasure regarding an imminent visitation from an eccentric

philanthropist among whose folkloric appellations is the honorific

title of St. Nicholas.

The prepubescent siblings, comfortably ensconced in their

respective accommodations of repose, were experiencing subconscious

visual hallucinations of variegated fruit confections moving

rhythmically through their cerebrums.

My conjugal partner and I, attired in our nocturnal head

coverings, were about to take slumberous advantage of the hibernal

darkness when upon the avenaceous exterior portion of the grounds

there ascended such a cacophony of dissonance that I felt compelled

to arise with alacrity from my place of repose for the purpose of

ascertaining the precise source thereof.

Hastening to the casement, I forthwith opened the barriers

sealing this fenestration, noting thereupon that the lunar brilliance

without, reflected as it was on the surface of a recent crystalline

precipitation, might be said to rival that of the solar meridian

itself - thus permitting my incredulous optical sensory organs to

behold a miniature airborne runnered conveyance drawn by eight

diminutive specimens of the genus Rangifer, piloted by a minuscule,

aged chauffeur so ebullient and nimble that it became instantly

apparent to me that he was indeed our anticipated caller.

With his ungulate motive power travelling at what may possibly

have been more vertiginous velocity than patriotic alar predators, he

vociferated loudly, expelled breath musically through contracted

labia, and addressed each of the octet by his or her respective

cognomen - "Now Dasher, now Dancer..." et al. - guiding them to the

uppermost exterior level of our abode, through which structure I

could readily distinguish the concatenations of each of the 32 cloven

pedal extremities.

As I retracted my cranium from its erstwhile location, and was

performing a 180-degree pivot, our distinguished

visitant achieved - with utmost celerity and via a

downward leap - entry by way of the smoke passage.

He was clad entirely in animal pelts soiled by the ebony

residue from oxidations of carboniferous fuels which had accumulated

on the walls thereof.

His resemblance to a street vendor I attributed

largely to the plethora of assorted playthings which he bore

dorsally in a commodious cloth receptacle.

His orbs were scintillant with reflected luminosity, while his

submaxillary dermal indentations gave every

evidence of engaging amiability.

The capillaries of his malar regions and nasal

appurtenance were engorged with blood which suffused

the subcutaneous layers, the former approximating the

coloration of Albion's floral emblem, the latter that of the

Prunus avium, or sweet cherry.

His amusing sub- and supralabials resembled

nothing so much as a common loop knot, and their ambient

hirsute facial adornment appeared like small, tabular and columnar

crystals of frozen water.

Clenched firmly between his incisors was a smoking

piece whose grey fumes, forming a tenuous ellipse about his occiput,

were suggestive of a decorative seasonal circlet of


His visage was wider than it was high, and when

he waxed audibly mirthful, his corpulent abdominal region undulated

in the manner of impectinated fruit syrup in a hemispherical container.

He was, in short, neither more nor less than an obese, jocund,

multigenarian gnome, the optical perception of whom

rendered me visibly frolicsome despite every effort

to refrain from so being.

By rapidly lowering and then elevating one eyelid and rotating his

head slightly to one side, he indicated that trepidation on my part was


Without utterance and with dispatch, he commenced filling the

aforementioned appended hosiery with various of the

aforementioned articles of merchandise extracted from his

aforementioned previously dorsally transported cloth receptacle.

Upon completion of this task, he executed an abrupt about- face,

placed a single manual digit in lateral juxtaposition to his olfactory

organ, inclined his cranium forward in a gesture of leave-taking, and

forthwith effected his egress by renegotiating (in reverse) the smoke


He then propelled himself in a short vector onto his conveyance,

directed a musical expulsion of air through his contracted oral sphincter

to the antlered quadrupeds of burden, and proceeded to soar aloft

in a movement hitherto observable chiefly among the

seed-bearing portions of a common weed. But I

overheard his parting exclamation, audible

immediately prior to his vehiculation beyond the

limits of visibility:

"Ecstatic Yuletide to the planetary constituency, and to that self

same assemblage, my sincerest wishes for a salubriously beneficial

and gratifyingly pleasurable period between sunset and dawn."


Answers and Replies

  • #2
:rofl: :rofl: :rofl: :rofl: Oh we're such nerds.... :tongue2:
  • #3
I am going to suffocate from the jargon in the air.

  • #4
I don't get it.... thats a good thing isnt it?
  • #5
check said:
:rofl: :rofl: :rofl: :rofl: Oh we're such nerds.... :tongue2:
I prefer the term "geek", but that's just me. :biggrin:
  • #6
Leave it to Evo to make even children's literature overly scientific. :grumpy:
  • #7
franznietzsche said:
Leave it to Evo to make even children's literature overly scientific. :grumpy:
:biggrin: I like this version better. :approve: :rofl:
  • #8
Here's my contribution to Christmas Poetry. Based on a true story

Twas the day after Christmas
one thought filled me with glee.
I could brag to the Forum,
"See what Santa brought me!"

I'd unwrapped my gift
20 hours ago.
A laptop, by Compaq
a Pentium Pro.

I slid my finger
along the thin spine.
Then took out a cloth,
gave the emblem a shine.

I unlatched its hinges
and lifted the lid.
I would use it on PF,
and that's just what I did.

About five hours later
the laptop worked great.
But I had a problem:
"I must urinate."

"Look, I can carry this,"
"All through the house."
"Isn't that special,"
said my wannabe spouse.

She was glaring at me,
once I emptied my bladder.
She didn't look happy,
but I'd seen her madder.

"Let's use my new present"
"It's right here on the shelf"
her present (it vibrates)
I said,"Use it yourself."

I knew that was bad,
a bad thing to say.
She reached for her present
and threw it my way.

I tried to duck
I really did try.
but that vibrating toy
hit me right in the eye.

then she took a step,
and with a swift kick,
she shattered the laptop.
"That's for being a dick."

Then, once she realized
just what she had done.
She looked at me and said,
"I'm sorry hun."

My holiday ruined
I went back to bed.
"We can still use my present,"
was the last thing she said.

I said okay
and took the dildo.
Then I got her back,
I stuck it in the wrong hole!
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  • #10
Absolutely incredible, did you write that yourself?

:rofl: :rofl:
  • #11
No, I got some help from Clement Clarke Moore.

lol, of course I wrote it myself. took me almost 20 minutes too.
  • #12
You should be a poet
  • #13
Yeah, I miss sleeping in the streets, not being able to afford food. begging in rhyme.
Actually what does it take to become a poet? write a poem? did it.
  • #14
Begging in rhyme makes you a starving poet.
  • #15
Since we're doing Poems tonight:

The Calf-Path
by Sam Walter Foss
(NH 1858-1911)


One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;


But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day,
By a lone dog that passed that way.
And then a wise bell-wether sheep,
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep;
And drew the flock behind him too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade.
Through those old woods a path was made.


And many men wound in and out,
And dodged, and turned, and bent about;
And uttered words of righteous wrath,
Because 'twas such a crooked path.
But still they followed - do not laugh -
The first migrations of that calf.
And through this winding wood-way stalked,
Because he wobbled when he walked.


This forest path became a lane,
that bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load,
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half,
They trod the footsteps of that calf.


The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare;
And soon the central street was this,
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half,
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.


Each day a hundred thousand rout,
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o'er his crooked journey went,
The traffic of a continent.
A Hundred thousand men were led,
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way,
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent,
To well established precedent.


A moral lesson this might teach,
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind,
Along the calf-paths of the mind;
And work away from sun to sun,
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.
They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move.
But how the wise old wood gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah! many things this tale might teach -
But I am not ordained to preach.
  • #16
Staff Emeritus
Science Advisor
Gold Member
Ah, tribdog, that's hysterical! A sweet Christmas poem to share with the whole family. :rofl:

Smurf, that's a good moral to that story/poem. I really like it.
  • #17
Yeah, does anyone remember the back when Thanksgiving was Thanksgiving and not Christmas part one?
  • #18
Staff Emeritus
Science Advisor
Gold Member
Entropy said:
Yeah, does anyone remember the back when Thanksgiving was Thanksgiving and not Christmas part one?
Yep...miss those days. I still refuse to put up any Christmas decorations until after Thanksgiving, even if there are houses on my block that started putting up the decorations as soon as Halloween was over! It spoils the fun of Christmas to start it so soon...then it just sort of trickles in and drags on rather than being just a few weeks of dazzle in the middle of winter.

There's a radio station here that's been playing Christmas songs only for the past several weeks already. That's just too much. I wonder who their listeners are to make this a profitable idea?
  • #19
elves, mostly.
  • #20
tribdog said:
elves, mostly.

Damned dirty elves.
  • #21
Arkansas version

(Arkansas version)

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the shack,
Not a thing was a movin' from the front to the back,
The kids were in bed, I believe we had nine,
The wife in her curlers was lookin' real fine.

A cold wind was blowin', up the holler it moaned,
All seven dogs on the porch howled and groaned.
The boys were all dreamin' of weapons and guns,
For killin' God's creatures, there's no better fun.

The girls in their feminine dreams were attuned,
To getting those gallons of Wal-Mart perfume.
The wife wanted jewellry, like rings with big rocks,
I wanted my Chevy down off the blocks.

Then in the yard such a noise did commence,
Like something was caught in the barb-wire fence.
I ran to the window and saw pretty quick,
The man makin' the racket was Good Ol' St. Nick.

You may think of Santa in your own mind's eye,
Dressed in a red and white suit, but I've got a surprise.
That old boy's an Arkie, our fair state he won't fail'er,
He married his cousin, and they live in a trailer.

On Christmas, of course, a sleigh for his rig,
He hooks the thing up, to a razorback pig.
He climbed on the roof, with his bag full of goodies,
He backed down the fireplace, all dirty and sooty.

Fat legs in his britches, chubby hands in his mittens,
I admit from the back, he looked like Bill Clinton.
He turned toward the tree, his eyes all aglow,
He was an Arkansas boy, from his head to his toe.

His neck was a red one, his shirt said "Light Beer",
There was no red hat, his cap read "John Deere".
He left all the presents, with an air of delight,
Then it was back to the chimney, and into the night.

He ran into the yard and threw his bag in the sleigh,
Then he yelled at the dogs to get out of the way.
And I heard him exclaim as those pigs took to flight,
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night ...

Or maybe it was a "bud lite"
  • #22
Staff Emeritus
Science Advisor
Gold Member
LOL! Evo, I see you're all decorated for Christmas! :biggrin:
  • #23
This one is for Monique.

11:51 P.M., DECEMBER 24TH
We're too late! It's already been here.

Mulder, I hope you know what you're doing.

Look, Scully, just like the other homes: Douglas fir, truncated, mounted, transformed into a shrine; halls decked with boughs of holly; stockings hung by the chimney, with care.

You really think someone's been here?

Someone, or something.

Mulder, over here--it's a fruitcake.

Don't touch it! Those things can be lethal.

It's O.K. There's a note attached: "Gonna find out who's naughty and nice."

It's judging them, Scully. It's making a list.

Who? What are you talking about?

Ancient mythology tells of an obese humanoid entity who could travel at great speed in a craft powered by antlered servants. Once each year, near the winter solstice, this creature is said to descend from the heavens to reward its followers and punish disbelievers with jagged chunks of antracite.

continued [Broken]
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  • #24
It IS the night before Christmas
and I'm all alone.
I've got no one to talk to
Its just me and my bone.

Moonbear has left me
She flew into the night
She went to her sister's.
that just doesn't seem right.

She should have come here
under my mistletoe.
If I kissed her while naked
would she think I'm a ho'?

I guess it doesn't matter,
because she isn't nearby.
And I just got something
that just might make me cry.

The mailman just brought me
a red envelope.
Inside is a picture
I don't think I can cope.

Its a beautiful picture
of a beautiful girl.
All eyes and smiles
and a head full of curl.

A picture's the only
way I can see
the only thing in the world
that means anything to me.

Last time I saw her,
my daughter was two.
I just wish I could tell her
"Courtnee, Dada loves you"
  • #25
sorry bout that one. the mailman really did come while I was in the middle of writing what was going to be a funny poem

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