HOUSE 77 Xmas EDITION

A short (AHAHAHAHAAHAHA RIIIIGHT) poem by Paul Day.

Twas the night before the politically correct X-mas, when all through the net
Not a creature was stirring, not even a computer geek smelling of sweat;
The porn stars were not by the webcams making cash,
In hopes that St. Nicolas soon would score them some hash.

Paul was nestled all snug in his den,
Taking sips from a novelty mini-bottle of wine again.
Writing a poem, enjoying the booze,
He sat typing wondering what was up with you fools.

When out on the web I thought there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to my mouse to see what was the matter.
Away to Swank I slowly went like a slug,
Because dial up is all I have and it fucking sucks.

But alas out at the ‘Loo there remained no hackers,
Not a Gram, a Mills, a Jesse, a Jono, not a single Slacker.
Away at the ‘Sauga remained only Jen,
Getting bored enough to want to stab someone with a pen.

But then out of the corner of my eye,
I saw something to my great surprise!
More amazing than seeing two chicks making out…
Or just about.

“Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On Cupid! On Donner and Blitzen!”
No wait, never mind, I thought it was cool.
But turns out it was just a Christmas pop-up window, another of the net’s useless tools.

As I sat there settling back and giving a sigh,
I wondered how the web will ever get by,
When there are losers like us wasting space,
Making up stupid poems, sometimes we are such a disgrace.

So then, in a fit of rage and disgust,
I hit my table, knocked over a book, and, curious, blew off the dust.
As I put it in my hand, and was turning it around,
I asked myself, what is this amazing object that I have just found?

There it was, the answer to my boredom in my hands,
And so I began to read about goblins, ghosts and distant lands.
At first it was surreal and weird,
All this text, no images, and no pop-ups ever appeared.

My eyes – how they twinkled! My dimples how merry!
My cheeks were like roses, my drunk nose, in this book, was buried!
My mouth drawn up like a bow,
I could see my beard actually grow!

The thickness of the book then struck me like a wall,
And it hit me that I had way better things to do being the trend setting Day, Paul.
So I dropped that waste of time,
And went back to the computer, continuing to write this rhyme.

It had been another fantastic term,
Of drinking beer, being idiots and spreading germs.
And so now Paul sits there listening to Rivers Cuomo,
And Brad, he says to you, “I’ll give you something to rub…homo.”

To Squeals, he’s jumping the bandwagon late at last:
It’s in the mail, what he’s sending you though, don’t ask.
To Monkey, keep on trucking.
Just make sure when you get real pissed you know what you are fucking.

Paul then sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a cheer,
And down his throat went a bottle of the devil's drink: beer.
But then he exclaimed, because he had almost forgot to mention.
"MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, EVEN YOU LOSERS FROM SEVENTY-SEVEN!”

admin comments:
Hendrix: hahahha