The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Thursday, December 25, 2003
A Merry Festivus To All!
Dedicated devotees and superstitious simpletons,
The time of Festivus is nearly upon us! Time to speak in rhyme non-stop, with the wit of a clever demon. Break out your suspenders and codpieces! Pull the togas out of the closets, stuff your stockings with rusty, jagged-edged throwing stars, place a fresh parrot upon your shoulder! Tis the season to par-tay down, to celebrate, to Wang Chung tonight!
Soon I’ll be slipping on my mystical Vice-shoes and running along the air currents, through the air over your rooftops, helping to spread the Festivus cheer. A canned ham at the base of every aluminum pole! A complete and comprehensive listing of grievances thumbtacked to your forehead. A beautiful likeness of myself sculpted out of ice and placed in your front yard. Neatly trimmed sideburns. All these will gained by the good folks celebrating Festivus on Festivus morning, thanks to my efforts. I have a lot to do.
A tradition in my family is the telling of seasonal tales on Festivus Eve. In keeping with tradition, I’ll tell one to you. This is one my father always told me on Festivus Eve.
Santa sat in his sleigh and giggled with girlish glee as his velvet seats tickled him through his red tights. It was 2:47 now, and Santa was in his favorite part of heartland America. He was flying over a small town deep within Texas. It was wholesome Christian country. Good people, Santa thought.
Up front, Rudolph was guiding the sleigh by the light of his nose. He had secretly stopped taking his Ritalin, against doctors orders. This made him hyperactive and somewhat annoying, and the other reindeer wouldn’t play games with him when he was like this. Rudolph hoped this would be the year he finally got that nose ring, or at least a cool tattoo so the chicks would dig him.
Huddled nervously within his bed was Ezekiel Rosenberg, an old Israeli who had grown tired of the situation in Israel and had moved to America to spend the rest of his days in peace. Unfortunately, this community had not been kind to him. Various people had been harassing him for being Jewish and leaving anti-Communist propaganda around his front yard and calling him at 1:15 in the morning and taunting him every night. But not tonight. It was 2:49 and 17 seconds and they still hadn’t called yet.
Rudolph touched down on a peeling wooden roof, with the deer and sleigh behind him. Santa jumped out with his bag of goodies and slid down the chimney, eager to give young Buck Thompson his present. Santa stepped inside, and carefully took young Buck’s present out from his bag. A shiny Red Ryder B.B. gun.
Ezekiel twitched in his bed. This was the night wasn’t it? That’s why they hadn’t called yet. This was the night those crazy backwater townsfolk were going to storm his house and take him out. Ezekiel jumped out of his bed at the sound of footsteps on his roof. Then he heard rustling in his living room, and Ezekiel crept out slowly and cautiously, petrified, to see what was going on.
Ezekiel saw the silhouette of a large man with a pointy hat (or was it a hood?) and a gun in his hand. Ezekiel raised up his own shotgun and fired instantly, his shotgun blast sending Santa flying against the wall, and splattering against it, his blood and guts spilling forth from his stomach like an overturned bowl full of jelly. Santa would never know that Rudolph hadn’t been paying attention and had landed on the wrong roof, by contrast, Ezekiel had never known of Christmas, and would never know, because on Santa’s last breath, he had dragged himself across the floor and strangled Ezekiel with his polar death-grip.
Rudolph never got that nose ring.
Sleep well little ones.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
The time of Festivus is nearly upon us! Time to speak in rhyme non-stop, with the wit of a clever demon. Break out your suspenders and codpieces! Pull the togas out of the closets, stuff your stockings with rusty, jagged-edged throwing stars, place a fresh parrot upon your shoulder! Tis the season to par-tay down, to celebrate, to Wang Chung tonight!
Soon I’ll be slipping on my mystical Vice-shoes and running along the air currents, through the air over your rooftops, helping to spread the Festivus cheer. A canned ham at the base of every aluminum pole! A complete and comprehensive listing of grievances thumbtacked to your forehead. A beautiful likeness of myself sculpted out of ice and placed in your front yard. Neatly trimmed sideburns. All these will gained by the good folks celebrating Festivus on Festivus morning, thanks to my efforts. I have a lot to do.
A tradition in my family is the telling of seasonal tales on Festivus Eve. In keeping with tradition, I’ll tell one to you. This is one my father always told me on Festivus Eve.
Santa sat in his sleigh and giggled with girlish glee as his velvet seats tickled him through his red tights. It was 2:47 now, and Santa was in his favorite part of heartland America. He was flying over a small town deep within Texas. It was wholesome Christian country. Good people, Santa thought.
Up front, Rudolph was guiding the sleigh by the light of his nose. He had secretly stopped taking his Ritalin, against doctors orders. This made him hyperactive and somewhat annoying, and the other reindeer wouldn’t play games with him when he was like this. Rudolph hoped this would be the year he finally got that nose ring, or at least a cool tattoo so the chicks would dig him.
Huddled nervously within his bed was Ezekiel Rosenberg, an old Israeli who had grown tired of the situation in Israel and had moved to America to spend the rest of his days in peace. Unfortunately, this community had not been kind to him. Various people had been harassing him for being Jewish and leaving anti-Communist propaganda around his front yard and calling him at 1:15 in the morning and taunting him every night. But not tonight. It was 2:49 and 17 seconds and they still hadn’t called yet.
Rudolph touched down on a peeling wooden roof, with the deer and sleigh behind him. Santa jumped out with his bag of goodies and slid down the chimney, eager to give young Buck Thompson his present. Santa stepped inside, and carefully took young Buck’s present out from his bag. A shiny Red Ryder B.B. gun.
Ezekiel twitched in his bed. This was the night wasn’t it? That’s why they hadn’t called yet. This was the night those crazy backwater townsfolk were going to storm his house and take him out. Ezekiel jumped out of his bed at the sound of footsteps on his roof. Then he heard rustling in his living room, and Ezekiel crept out slowly and cautiously, petrified, to see what was going on.
Ezekiel saw the silhouette of a large man with a pointy hat (or was it a hood?) and a gun in his hand. Ezekiel raised up his own shotgun and fired instantly, his shotgun blast sending Santa flying against the wall, and splattering against it, his blood and guts spilling forth from his stomach like an overturned bowl full of jelly. Santa would never know that Rudolph hadn’t been paying attention and had landed on the wrong roof, by contrast, Ezekiel had never known of Christmas, and would never know, because on Santa’s last breath, he had dragged himself across the floor and strangled Ezekiel with his polar death-grip.
Rudolph never got that nose ring.
Sleep well little ones.
The Virgin Prince
