Tuesday, December 20, 2005

For last year's Christmas Poem and The Story of Santor, go here.

For this year's celebration of Holiday-themed awfulness, read on, Loyal Leaguers...

Chad, the Christmas Elf
a very League Holiday poem

by: Charles Dickens

It really gets rolling during each Thanksgiving Parade
We learn we must sleep in the bed that we've made.
As we watch Katie Couric and that weirdo Al Roker
You'll want to gouge out your eyes with hot pokers.

The ads start to run, each one different but same
With Santas and elves interrupting your footbally games.
One squirms when one thinks "when did they film this?
I mean, it's on now. It wasn't filmed during last Christmas."

"It must have been summer. Under the heat of the sun.
It seems that fake snow must sell by the ton.
And the little people needed to audition for elves...
How many little people are there?" we ask of ourselves.

But that's why our Christmas tale this year is so sad.
It's the story of an unemployed elf whose named Chad.
He was from old Phoenix, where he'd elved at the Mall.
He was obese and 6'4", which, for a midget, is tall.

But he dreamed of Hollywood, as an Elf to the Stars!
So he travelled out west. First by train then by car.
He found a cheap agent, and on headshots he spent
"It's Christmas," he said. "My Elving will pay rent."

He wandered the casting calls in the suit he'd made for himself
If he wanted his dreams, he said, "I must believe I'm an elf!"
The suit was homemade, from felt, yarn and tape
With stretch pants which gave an illusion that Chad smuggled grapes.

He appeared before the agent, his suit dewy with sweat
But he was ready to elf, he'd show them that yet.
"I made the hat from a pattern, the shoes my own design!"
And then he turned to show them his red-sequined behind.

"We quite like the hat, and the curl in your toes.
But we'd be dishonest, sir elf, if we didn't let you know.
You're a bit tall," they said. "And if I remember...
We quit shooting our Christmas ads the second week of September."

"But it's Christmas now," cried Chad, his bells all a-jingle.
"I want to share my joy with the stupid kids and Kris Kringle!
I've driven out here, I'm dead broke and I'm tired.
My pointy shoes cut my feet from the frame chicken wire."

"My friend, we'll provide you with costumes a' plenty.
You're also 6'4" and you must weigh four-twenty.
We have roles as a Santa, you seem right for the part.
Put on this red suit, and go stand by Wal-Mart."

"What?" cried out Chad. "I'm no Salvation Army sucker.
I'm an elf, plain as day, you dumb mother@#$er."
What befell Chad after that, I cannot report.
He vanished from casting with three armed escorts.

When next Chad was seen, it was Tucson, late June,
He was standing by the roadside in his elven costume.
Apparently his elfing career was not fixed,
So he'd gone back to the desert to turn some Christmassy tricks.

He stood by the roadside, showing leg to each car
when up rolled a Christmassy but run-down Windstar.
"How's business?" asked a hoarse voice from inside.
"Not bad. For five dollars, I'll go for a ride."

The voice inside the Windstar was not quite unkind.
"I'm in need of some help, and I'm running behind.
These gifts need to reach each boy and each girl,
and my Windstar and I have to traverse the world."

"Oh," said Chad, his eyes dull with elf pain.
"I once was an elf, but I'll elf ne'er again.
There's too much humiliation and too much rejection
And my current occupation landed me a nasty infection."

"My lad," boomed the figure from the dilapidated hulk.
"I need you this Christmas, and I need your bulk.
You think I'm Kris Kringle, you tubby man-whore.
I'm the giver of crap gifts, I'm that bastard Santor."

Chad's eyes lit like H-bombs, he sweat like a pig.
This was what he'd waited for, for his Chistmassy gig.
"I'll help you, you jack-ass, to spread your moldy old joy.
I've got Yanni and John Tesh records for each girl and boy."

He slid the door open, to the Windstar he climbed
And to all his sad customers, he left them behind.
Now with Chad beside him, Santor put it in gear
And Chad grinned like a nut job into the mirror marked "rear."

Now rest assured, Santor's the guy with the plan
But he's not alone with our Chad in the van.
Chad'll help out as he shoves unwanted crap 'neath the tree
Just try to ignore that ripe smell of dried pee.

So each Christmas Eve as you ready for bed
Think of Chad and the merry adventures he's led.
Leave a scotch for ol' Santor whether you're good or you're bad
But leave penicillin for your elf friend Sad Chad.

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