‘Twas the Blog Before Christmas

Twas the blog before Christmas

And all through the condo

Hippo was drooling

And pretty much nothing ryhmes with condo.

The Christmas tree, up

Fucking finally, I sighed

Branches carefully arranged

Ornaments hung with pride.

Small dog, on the sofa snoring

Atop a $300 down comforter

Probably dreaming of Colin Firth

I daren’t disturb her.

The sky outside, gray

The lights in here, bright

Though that fucker in the kitchen,

Yeah, that light ain’t quite right.

See, that thing had been flickering

So last night, I climbed up

Uttered, “What the fuck, light?”

Wondering if for bulbs, I had backup.

But the bulbs, hey they look fine.

Maybe I’m losing my mind.

So I climb back down the ladder

And what do I find?

The fuckers start flickering

YET AGAIN, so I climb back up.

I give the light a shake

And yet another WHAT THE FUCK!?

The flickering, it ceases.

My mind, works towards ease.

The ladder, I fold.

I take a glance at the tree.

The lights on the tree

The entire midsection, they cover

The bed, they have shit.

To which I exclaim, “Motherfucker.”

Through the tree, I dig

This “pre-lit,” six-foot asshole.

“Buy a pre-lit tree! It’s easy!”

My patience, about to unroll.

Ornaments, removed.

Circuits, tested.

Tiny lightbulbs rightly fucked with

The entire tree, now detested.

On the floor, I sit

Tree skirt, up my ass.

Feeling the complete poster child

Of both Christmas AND class.

Then, to me comes

The ultimate “fuck it”

I’ve got a string of lights around here somewhere.


I forage and probe

I capsize and my hand, cut

Hippopotamus starts barking,

To which I shout, “WHAT?!?!”

And at that very moment,

My head, I do hit.

I’m not going to lie.

I totally said, “Shit.”

When my eyes finally opened

There in the hall closet, so packed

What to mine eyes did appear?


It’s a fact.

My head ringing in pain,

I reach up to the box.

I grab it like pussy

That is, like pussy you would grab if you were in a consensual, adult relationship and you’d established a safe word that wasn’t “Trump” or you had a cat that was about to walk on a hot stove and you were rescuing your feline love because there are no other circumstances where it’s cool to just grab something by the pussy.

I stretch out the lights,

Through the tree’s torso, they’re wrapped

The plug-end, I take

Because I’m over this crap.

In the wall, the plug’s shoved


I let out a WAHOOOO!

And then the kitchen lights start blinking.

And for the first time in 52 days,

I contemplate vodka.

And wine, and gin

And possibly punching a llama.

So, I do the only thing

That I truly can do.

I switch off the kitchen light,

And I calmly mutter, “Fuck you.”

As today, when I write this

It’s the next morning, the day before

The reason I put up this tree

Instead of letting it rot in a box one year more.

Beneath it, two presents

Both for Clark Kent.

One from me to him.

The other, from the dogs (and purchased with my consent).

And the lights in the kitchen,

Those bastards still flicker

By my tree is fully lit

So to myself, I give a snicker.

Because lemme tell ya – life’s full of tough shit.

And these lights of it, the least.

I’ve got coffee and climate control —

All I need to tame the beast

That is this holiday

Filled with bastard lights and wrapping paper, so thin.

Seriously — this wrapping paper is crap.

Most of it ended up in the bin

As I tried to wrap Clark’s gift,

Proving yet again, how I fail.

But the best part of this whole tale?

Clark Kent will never know.

Because he isn’t on Facebook,

And my blog, oh…my beau.

He doesn’t really read it.

So to him, I’ll be the rockstar

Who decked out the tree

The top? Missing only a star.

And me, the dorky girl

Who swore up a storm on par

With a scene fresh out of “Deadwood”

You won’t hear THAT on NPR.

So now, I leave you

To wash back some caffeine

And admire my goddamn Christmas tree

Because this Christmas, I AM THE QUEEN.

And when Clark Kent returns

From his overnight excursion

He’ll walk into a home filled

With only holiday spirit, no diversions.

Just puppies asleep

(on a fucking $300 down comforter)

And his dorky-ass girlfriend

Who only wants for him to kiss her.

And when he asks about her hand

All swaddled in gauze

She’ll just make a pish-posh sound

And say, “Oh, just got a nick trying to be Santa Claus.” <giggle>


Oh, and here’s the fucking Christmas tree:

the fucking christmas tree

As I close-up my laptop,

And head to deal (once again) with that damn kitchen light,

I wish a Happy Christmas to you all.

And to all — keep fighting the good fight.

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