‘Twas the night before Pajibmas, day of wry souls,
Not a commenter was stirring, not even the trolls;
The effigies were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Michael Bay soon would hang there;
The writers were sprawled out, all drunk on the floor,
Their articles all posted, rage vented in textual roar.
And Dustin with his whiskey, and I with my wine,
Had just settled on our asses for a movie most fine —
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
We sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.
Away to the window we flew like two Flashes,
Tripped through the glass, blood spraying in splashes.
The red and the gore painted the new fallen snow,
Gave the luster of torture porn to lawn gnomes below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Murdertank of mad dreams soaked in rich beer,
With a screaming driver on the lawn dropping a dookie,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Pookie.
More rapid than eagles our drunk writers did rouse,
Shitty directors and actors with verbal gasoline we’d douse:
“Now Dustin! Now Rebecca and Emily! now Cindy and Jodi!
“On, Vivian! On TK! On Genny and Courtney!
“Steven and Brian, Kristy, Sarah, and Seth!
“Hurry up! Time is money, and money is meth.”
Our wounds forgotten, we rallied atop the Murdertank,
Hoisted our booze for an attack on Hollywood’s stank.
Slaps rained on the unknowing, putting up their feet,
“Cretins, don’t you dare sully Jo’s honorary seat!”
As I drained my full stein, and was turning around,
The tank lurched forward, groaning with gears well ground.
First, we torched the hacks, the stupid and unoriginal bores,
They sobbed at our words, those unrepentant cultural whores.
To our saints we brought praise, every nice word we knew.
Joss cried like a baby, but Dan Harmon pretended not to.
For the Pajiba Ten, the prose ran long, lurid, and thick,
Idris growled thanks, but Kendrick purred “that’s my dick”.
And the Murdertank did deliver to each eloquent eloquent:
Mock and droll, and snark and wit, and even a place to vent.
But I heard the driver exclaim, ere he passed out quite drunk—
Happy Pajibmas to my lovely Pajibans, I’ll be in my bunk.
Steven Lloyd Wilson is a hopeless romantic and the last scion of Norse warriors and the forbidden elder gods. His novel, ramblings, and assorted fictions coalesce at www.burningviolin.com. You can email him here.