Tuesday, May 10, 2011


Radio guru and tart-tonged funny-man Dennis Miller recently suggested that someone should write a parody of "The Night Before Christmas" to cover the Mother's Day events in Abbottabad, Pahkeestahn. On the fly he tried to name it, and came up with "Twas the Night Before Monday."

Here is my entry. Miller did not choose to post it. Epic Fail, if you ask me. See what you think.

Twas the night before Monday,
And all through the yard,
Not a creature was stirring
Not even the guard.
My turban was hung
On a hook by the closet,
And I’d put on that bathrobe
With its secret cash deposit.

The children were nestled,
Three or four to a bed,

While visions of goatburgers
Danced in their heads.
And mama in her bed-socks

And pink silk chador
Had just settled down
With one eye on the door,

When up on the roof
There arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed
To see what was the matter.
Then away from the window
I ducked like a flash
And wondered if someone

Was stealing my stash.
The moon on the breast
Of my new teen-aged wife

Gave me major incentive
To cling to my life.

When what to my wondering
Eyes should appear
But a camouflaged hulk
In a mountain of gear,
With a bunch of his comrades
So lively and quick,

I just about pee’d
And I thought I’d be sick.
More rapid than eagles
To the rooftop they came.
And they grunted and shouted
And called me by name.
“You Bastard, you raghead,
You murdering f#ck --
You’ve bombed your last building
And humvee and truck!

So mumble to Allah,
‘Cause the last thing you’ll see
Is one bullet from New York,

And one from D.C.,
And then Pennsylvania,
And then we’ll be done.
You got nowhere to hide,
You got nowhere to run.”
They had hovered above,

Down their ropes they had shimmied.
They came in from all sides,
Everywhere but the chimney.
As I rubbed my red eyes

And collected my hat
They had filled up the bedroom
And cornered their rat.
They had night-vision goggles
And great big-ass guns,

And scared me so bad
I developed the runs.
Their rifle-sights glinted
And fixed on me tight.

Their cheeks were all green
And their teeth gritted white.
The beard on my chin
Turned as white as the snow,
And I knew I was done for,
With no place to go.

My skinny old face
And my lazy-boy belly
All shook when they laughed,
Like a bowlful of jelly.
I gave a weak smile

And a ‘whatever’ shrug.
The last thing I remember
Was the 45 slug.”

Then up to the house-top
These warriors blazed,
Jumped into their choppers,
And skyward they raised,
With a sh#t-load of hardware
From Osama’s hut

And a body-bag ready
For his sorry butt.

And back home in Washington,
Deep under the White House,

All the President’s men,
And one President’s spouse,
Were all taking notes
[with a few variations!]
To spread to the press
And the rest of the nation.

There was one basic theme
On which there was agreement:
That Obama, like Beowulf,

Had gone after the demon.
Like Leonidas, Caesar,

King David, or Patton,
Like Joanie of Arc,
Or that genius Saladin,
He’d pounded his fist
And said “It’s a go!”
Then they gave him a footstool

To sit on for the show.
He had raced off the golf course
To watch it go down,
And the nation was grateful
He'd managed to be in town.
He spoke not a word
While the Seals were at work,
In fear that, beside them,
He’d look like a jerk.
But I heard him exclaim,
As they choppered from sight,

“Hot-damn! Who’d have thought it?
I guess Might can do Right!”

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