A Christmas Poem by Yours Truly

To Hell With Norman Rockwell . . .

Twas the night before dinner of the holiday kind;
My wife’s on amphetamines and I’m losing my mind.
My testicles were grabbed by her fist without care
For I didn’t know the green beans didn’t go there.

I asked for fresh turkey cause that kind’s the best.
And dear Kevin claims it was all in good jest.
But since there’s now wild poultry shitting in my shoe,
I want to weld his ass to the toilet seat using the strongest of glue.

Will someone get this fucking bird out of here?

Linda’s got a list of who can eat what and when—
Constipation for Nana and acid reflux for Ken.
So now our bathroom’s filled with laxatives and Tums;
When it comes to bodily functions, god forbid people remain mum.

Rod’s car’s got an exhaust leak yet he backs it up the driveway.
Carbon monoxide death be damned; gasoline’s a good smell to have around anyway.
What holiday’s complete without your token screaming baby?
At this point a jackhammer to my skull really wouldn’t faze me.

Who the hell invited all these people to spend the night?
Linda said she heard the weather’s supposed to be a fright.
Considering I heard record warmth and sun, I have to wonder
Whether the dyslexic meteorologist fed people a blunder.

Oh Jimmy! Oh Charlie! Oh Nancy! Oh Claire!
The dog really doesn’t like it when you stick ornaments up there.
C’mon Carol and Bill, would you help me out a little here?
For the safety of my keepsakes, pen your young up somewhere.

The kitchen’s ablaze and the smoke detector’s going off.
Why the hell is Frank’s mouth starting to froth?
Apparently swallowing Alka-Seltzer and Coca Cola too
Will make a distant relative of Cujo out of you.

So help me, Frank, if that takes the lacquer off the table I’m sticking your head in the oven.

The turkey’s now de-stuffing my antique couch
And Greg, the hemophiliac, just arrived and I swear I heard ‘ouch.’
Now here’s Kathy and her emo boyfriend, Nick.
Does he wear eyeliner and her jeans to purposely be a prick?

Rosemary’s baby just vomited on my widescreen TV,
Proof positive that an exorcism would be good: flee, demons, flee!
Too bad I already called the priest and he told me nice try.
They actually need to sizzle under holy water for the evil brand to fly.

My Christmas tree that I had spent hours perfecting
Now lies askew against the wall, the notion of holiday it’s now vehemently rejecting.
Only half of it is lit at any given time
And the angel’s getting sodomized by a holly vine.

Where the shit did you kids learn about that?

Linda just yelled at me for swearing at the children.
Obviously she doesn’t know that my outbursts are prudent.
220 over 180, how the hell am I not dead?
I guess drowning it out in eggnog works in nitrate’s stead.

There are crayons in my canned cranberry sauce
And the youngest of Carol’s spawn just told me to fuck off.
Whose brilliant idea was it to let Greg chop potatoes?
Blood’s not good as far as gravy goes.

I think our neighbors just called the cops
Because the door is echoing with authoritative knocks.
Turns out Cousin Willy got caught with his pants down again
And thinks we’re nothing sort of a bail bondsman.

I don’t care about Bubba. Maybe a round of Christmas Bitch and a wreath on your dick will teach you to keep your clothes on, asshole.

My house smells like farts and there’s bird shit on my china.
I really hope this pain in my chest is nothing more than Angina.
I’m expected to be smiley and greet our guests with Christmas cheer.
To that I say bite me you all. Just let me self-medicate with beer.