Twas a Nightmare Before Christmas
It is said that Clement Clarke Moore wrote The Night Before Christmas about Santa while taking a sleigh ride. Whereas I was inspired to tweak today’s iconic holiday poem with some egg nog and rye.
In short, today’s tale is about a not-so-jolly Santa Claus who sings, misunderstood and took it out on a poor Recreation Therapist (I’m the poor Recreation Therapist).
In Click Bait, I was protective of our budget. Today, Santa Claus was clearly on a budget.
‘Twas the day after Santa’s show, when all through the house,
not a resident was stirring, not even their spouse.
The stockings were hung by the front chimney with care,
in hopes that St. Nicholas would never sing again there.
The residents were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of TR programs danced in their heads.
And a Rec Therapist with her landyard, and I in my flats,
had just turned our brains on before a long day’s spat.
When out of the email there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to my computer to see what was the matter.
Away to the message I flew like a flash,
tore open the email, knocking coffee over with a splash.
Santa messaged, pretending he didn’t know
how our organization pays after a show,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but multiple angry emails and eight exclamation points near.
With words so insulting and quick,
I knew in that moment he was not the real St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles, his insults they came,
and he typed and shouted and called me many names:
“Now Woman! Idiot!
Now, take the blame!
On the Contrary! On, Stupid!
I’m black listing your name!
To the top of the province!
To the 100th call!
I’ll dash away! Dash away!
Dash away from you all!”
As dry eyes read what words shouldn’t fly,
I’ve met an obstacle, who’s supposed to be a jolly guy,
so up my heart rate, the sweat on my brow grew
with the inbox full of slander from none other than St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard a goof,
the prancing and opening at my door of someone who is not aloof.
As I drew in my head and eyes to the ground,
entering my office, my co-recreation therapist came with a bound.
We discussed how this Santa was dressed in worn fur, from his head to his foot,
and how his clothes were all tarnished, with his jacket caput.
A portable keyboard he had flung on his back,
and he looked and smelt like a cigarette pack.
His eyes-how they didn’t twinkle, his dimples, not merry!
His cheeks weren’t exposed, his nose was hairy!
The droll little mouth was drawn up in a frown,
and the beard on his chin was as fake as the gown.
The smile he held through clenched teeth,
and the smell it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and no little round belly,
that shook when he laughed, maybe he could use a bowl full of jelly.
He was not chubby and plump, a right naughty old elf,
and I laughed when I thought about him, in spite of myself.
The Co-Rec Therapist wink of her eye and a twist of her head
soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He then sent more threats, defending his work,
and I wrote to management, to prove he was a jerk.
Laying the law, this nonsense came to a close,
and with a “take care”, he will not be performing anymore shows.
I had never before had a partnership like this fizzle,
I prefer not to work with people who are this superficial.
But I thought to myself, as I deleted the emails out of sight,
I do hope he has a Merry Christmas and perhaps a Budlight.
For decades there have been controversary of who wrote The Night Before Christmas, but today it is clear that whoever wrote the poem was not describing this Santa Claus and his reindeer.
