Written by Alan Smithee
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Topics: Christmas, Santa

Tuesday, 21 December 2004

image for 'Twas the Night Before Christmas
Neville may get coal if he's not good

(or How do you think Santa Claus put on those extra pounds?)

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the House
Not a soda ban was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that advertisers soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of soft drinks danced in their heads;
And food cops in their 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out in the press there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the PC I flew like a flash,
I typed at the keyboard and tightened my sash.

The glow on the backlit, newly-installed machines,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the kids in-between,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But an editorial from a PR front, and eight tiny sneers,

With a little old PR firm, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his missives they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, DASHER! now, DANCER! now, PRANCER and VIXEN!
To the heck with doctors! to the heck with dentists!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As the letters that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the paper's top, the letters they flew,
With an e-bay full of Coke toys, and St. Nicholas too.  

And then, in a twinkling, I thought of a spoof
Of the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I typed on the keyboard and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A carton of cigarettes he had flung off his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his Marlboro pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! booze he once sold made him merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up to a Bud,
And the smell on his breath was a marketing dud.

The stump of a Camel he once sold held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a belly so round,
The soda had helped gain him an extra pound.    

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
With a wink of his eye and a belt ready to burst,
He handed me a Coke, and said, " It's my gift for thirst."

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled the stockings, like any good soda jerk,
And acting a bit wired as if on No-Doz,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, after tripping over the gate,
Then away they all flew straining under his weight,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out to make Coke more wealth,

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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