Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through Duluth
not a creature was sober, not even the youth.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
comatose from the NyQuil they’d been force-fed.
Mother passed out at the foot of the stairs.
Father slumped on the porch in his underwear.
Grandpa’s still at the bar, screaming about Hispanics,
while grandma’s in Superior blowing an auto mechanic.
But out on our lawn there arose such a clatter,
I awoke in the kitchen, where I’d been eating pancake batter.
Away to the window I stumbled with my drink,
tore open the shutters and threw up in the sink.
The moon on the breast of my spew-covered face
made me look like Herb Bergson in his hour of disgrace.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but newscaster Dennis Anderson, and eight growlers of Fitger’s beer.
With glasses so round and a toupee so thick,
I knew in a moment it must be ol’ Slick.
More bushy than Selleck, his mustache it came,
he whistled, and shouted, and tried to remember my name.
“Hey Marky! Hey Donny! Hey Joey or Jordy!
Hey Davey! Hey Mickey! Hey Peter or Gordy!
Let’s drink at Enger Tower! Let’s drink at Park Point!
Let’s go to the lakewalk and light up a joint!”
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
but his outfit was tarnished with vomit and soot.
The bundle of growlers were attached to his fleece.
Denny looked like a hobo, except for the hairpiece.
But Denny’s eyes, how they twinkled! Denny’s dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his buttocks like blueberries!
His crooked little teeth were drawn up like a bow,
and the curve of his chin was littered with cookie dough.
His furry snowmobile pants were the height of innovation,
the crotch so tight, it left nothing to the imagination.
Preening like a peacock with the power of Kuomintang,
all the ladies knew Christmas was confined in his wang.
Denny was happy and confident, a right jolly old putz,
I laughed when I saw him, and he kneed me in the nuts.
But a wink of his eye and a nod of his head,
soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He produced from his pocket a handful of myrrh
we could use to buy potato balls at Ghetto Spur.
But our ambition gave way, as it does when you’re drunk,
so up to the house-top we climbed to get crunked.
As we were tinkling off the side of the roof,
Denny grunting and groaning like an elderly goof,
a police car pulled up and a spotlight was shone.
Our fun night was over, our cover was blown.
Denny spoke not a word, but went straight to his work.
He swallowed all the Cannabis without losing his smirk.
He shotgunned the growlers, not wasting the brew,
and tossed the bottles, down the chimney they flew!
We jumped to the ground, as the cops gave a whistle,
hopped in his Fiero and drove off like a missile.
The cops heard him exclaim, as we escaped this bind,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all, be kind!”