Nick & Co.

There were four headlines at nypost.com about a May-December reality TV couple I’d never heard of: “An ugly mess: The scandalous implosion of Erika Jayne and Tom Girardi.” I’m out of the loop in most ways regarding modern programming.

I decided to do something different. Clement Clarke Moore wrote A Visit from Saint Nicholas in 1823. I had some fun with it. I hope it won’t have him rolling over in his grave. To those who may deem this sacrilege, remember that his poem will live long after us, and my take-off will quickly fade into oblivion.

“‘Twas the day before Christmas, masks were in place.
It was hard to recognize many a face.
Many hurried about with great care,
While others were neither here nor there;
Children were happy, thinking ahead,
Visions of iphones in the head;
Mamma in her ‘kerchief, I in my cap,
Hoping Santa wouldn’t treat me like a sap.
Out on the street there was such a clatter,
I looked left to see what was the matter.
Drivers were exhibiting the Christmas spirit,
Yelling and screaming so everyone could hear it.
Even though the sun was shining, the temperature warm,
They insisted on raising a stink and a storm.
And next to my wandering eyes did appear,
A girl sans mask in a dress short and shear.
As I gazed in wonder and awe,
Mom gave a tsk-tsk and pshaw.
I knew in a moment she must be one of Santa’s elves,
who tend to his wishes and stack his shelves.
I saw it all so clearly, bet he was so happy when they came,
Whistling and shouting, and calling them by name:
“Now D-Cup! now Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On Comet! on Cupid! on Donna and Blitzen!
Ho-ho-ho, you are my angels, one and all.
Always at my beck and call.
Oh how we soar and fly,
So much cream pie in the sky.
So up to the cozy loft they flew
With hands full of toys and lubricant too.
And then, in a twinkling heard from the room,
Squeaking and sighing and va-va-va-voom.
All so clear in the mirror above the bed,
Into a beautiful configuration he led.
And St. Nicholas arrived with a cry and hoot,
Causing him to shake from head to foot.
The sheets were christened with the elixir of life;
And there was no thought of the world’s strife.
He lay smiling and contented on his back
Like a wolf who is master of his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as sticky as — you know.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke encircled his head like a wreath.
His reddened face and abundant belly
Shook when he laughed like a bowl of jelly.
He sighed and cooed, elf to his right and left,
They laughed despite having been crushed by his heft.
He smiled and said let’s do it all night.
And they snuggled and held him oh so tight.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled their chambers then burst with a jerk.
And laying his hands atop his treasures,
He laughed and asked for other measures.
He sprang erect and with shrieks of joys,
And again they went at it like boys with toys.
Then he exclaimed with exhausted delight
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

My thanks to Romania-born artist Andu, who overcompensated me for Giovanni Boccaccio’s Decameron, Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, and John Gribbin’s In Search of Schrödinger’s Cat: Quantum Physics and Reality; and to the gentleman who bought two books in Russian; and to the woman who purchased three of like and returned a half hour later with a donation of about 15.

Merry Christmas, America.

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