Friday, November 09, 2018
A Christmas Casserole
As I sat here weak and weary,
Pondering stories dark and dreary,
I realized something about Fred.
My story offers no reprieve,
If it doesn't lead you to believe,
That like a doornail, Fred was dead.
My scary Christmas story starts,
With the master of the stingy arts,
One, Ronald J. Drumpf, Esquire.
Who, once for just the insurance:
Two thousand pounds and seven pence,
Set his mother's house afire.
Full seven years since Fred's demise,
Ron sat with bloodshot, bleary eyes,
Gazed at reports his staff had sent.
He tried to read the tiny words,
'Bout caravans and fighting Kurds,
For he was now the President.
He called upon his chief of staff,
A general -- it made him laugh
To make him just an errand boy.
He told him to go fire a guy,
Who didn't bow when Ron walked by --
Another career to destroy!
He'd finished with his toilet time,
And heard his Rolex softly chime,
He must go to his residence.
For working, even on his ass,
Was far below the upper class,
And duty was a pestilence.
He took the elevator up,
On three Big Macs tonight he'd sup,
While watching a big TV screen.
But on the shiny lift doors bright,
Appeared a very scary sight:
Old Fred's face could clearly be seen.
The apparition gave him pause,
And even startled him, because
"Hi, ya sonny!" the face said.
He choked and mumbled, "That can't be --
My father cannot talk to me!
I buried him cheaply -- he's dead!"
The lift doors opened quick and wide,
Fred's face split, and slid aside.
And Ronald stumbled coming out.
The Secret Service grabbed his arm,
So that he should not come to harm,
He shook them off with just a pout.
The guard stepped back, out of the way,
And stood there, with the Big Mac tray,
Waiting, his eyes shining bright.
Without a smile, a nod, or jokes,
Ron took the tray, some Diet Cokes,
And said, "I don't need you tonight."
He shambled into his bedroom,
As quiet as an empty tomb,
And slurped the first of many a Coke.
Until he heard a sloshing river,
And smelled a stench that made him shiver,
It gagged him, and it made him choke.
His bloodshot eyes both opened wide,
As closet doors just slid aside,
Hip deep in muck, in walked old Fred!
He smelled so bad Drumpf nearly fainted,
An odor he had not acquainted,
Slowly all around him spread.
"Do you know me?" asked the ghost.
"Hi, Dad..." Drumpf said, well, almost --
"Are you in Hell, now that you're dead?
This looks like something I could take!"
Fred laughed at him, "I'm on break.
Else, I am standing on my head."
"Because I know this waits for you,
In fact, you're at your neck in goo,
I came to offer you a chance.
So you don't have to follow me,
My friends will visit, spirits three.
Each one requires a cash advance!"
A gong sound made old Fred just scream,
As he was swept up in vile stream,
And something turned him on his head.
Slowly drained that noisome mess,
And dragged along, under duress,
The last he saw of daddy...Fred.
Drumpf sat down hard upon the floor,
His bone spurs ached, he was so sore,
That even food and TV lost their shine.
As he wondered "What's the time?"
He heard a distant, wicked chime,
And then came an annoying whine.
The whine grew louder, even higher,
He knew the sound -- a cheap hair dryer --
Coming through the bathroom door.
Soon the sound stopped altogether,
Now he waited to see whether
Twas a ghost or something more.
Through the door there came, oh brother!
First one boob and then another...
Out walked Stormy -- a porn star!
"Hi there, Ronny! I've been cast:
As Ronny J. Drumpf's Christmas Past
Get up, ya schmuck, we must go far!"
You know the story of their trip:
From golden spoon to chairmanship,
Every privilege he had.
He ducked responsibility,
and played dirty repeatedly,
At business he was very bad.
They flew around the business world,
Her hair a golden flag unfurled.
As he reviewed his life's delights.
He watched his siblings lose their chances.
He watched his habits kill romances.
They even looked at Christmas lights...
Stormy said, "You're such a louse!"
And dropped him off at the White House,
Sitting on his bedroom floor.
Yawning, he just checked his bling.
He never felt a single thing...
Just a trip and nothing more.
Stormy left ... again that chime!
And he heard loud knocking this time,
At his bedroom closet door.
As he opened it up wide,
He found Hillary inside.
"Man, your wardrobe is a snore!"
"For both of us this is not pleasant,
I'm the ghost of Christmas present,
And we have stuff we gotta do.
One big change, I said must be:
I don't want you to touch me,
So I'll just hand you Bill's old shoe."
Off they flew like Peter Pan,
Until they spied a caravan,
Camped for rest and Christmas cheer.
Happy kids and worn-out mothers,
Helping care for one another's
Kids, while momma chugged a beer.
Men were playing cards and drinking,
Some just sat alone and thinking,
How to save their families.
Hillary heard all their longings.
Drumpf rummaged through their belongings,
Seeking weapons he could seize.
They traveled through the poorest places,
Stared into the worried faces,
Of the poor on Christmas eve.
Hillary's old heart was breaking.
Drumpf looked hard for stuff worth taking,
And said, "They're losers, I believe!"
Finally, with her heart broken,
All her arguments were spoken.
She gave up her Christmas quest.
Fast as she could use her zoom,
She dropped him back in his bedroom,
And stood to deliver the rest:
Even though it really hurt,
Hillary raised up her skirt,
And revealed two creatures there.
McConnell and Giuliani,
Sat there grasping ankle and knee,
Each with glowing, baleful stare.
"I tell you: Beware these creatures,
With their white and pasty features,
For your future they will haunt!
They will draw on our resources,
Stop good plans in all their courses:
They are ignorance and want!"
He watched her just vaporize,
Creatures fade before his eyes,
So he slumped upon his chair.
His scream hit a high climax --
For he'd sat on all his Big Macs!
He'd fire the guard who put them there!
Christmas future came, of course:
Putin rode in on a horse,
Offering a bareback ride.
Drumpf climbed up upon his chair,
Big Mac's flying everywhere,
Sighing as he jumped astride.
Off they rode, and faced the bright,
Lovely, golden, shining light,
Of a brilliant Christmas Day.
People rushed about and hustled,
Carried packages and rustled,
Voices happy, loud, and (ugh!) gay!
Everyone was smiling, happy.
No one's grouching, feeling crappy,
No one life was full of drama.
Happiness is what they're crying!
Love their leader: no denying,
President Michelle Obama!
Drumpf woke up tucked in his bed,
Big Macs lined up, round his head;
Wiped the sleepers from his eyes.
Ron donned his same dark wool suit,
And long red tie -- the full reboot,
And went downstairs to tell some lies.
Merry Christmas...some things just won't change...
If Edgar Allan Poe and Michel de Nostredame had helped Charles Dickens write A Christmas Carol. Quatrains become sestets. Predictions abound which seem to be coming true...
Posted by Mick at 3:21 PM