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"Jimmy! I thought I told you to do the dishes after you do your homework! Why are you watching television?"
"It's okay, Mom! I haven't done my homework yet."
the christmas elf massacre
Buy me a beer if you want the story told
Of why I moved down South from the frost and cold.
Why I'm knee deep in therapy, liquor, and pills.
Why I've given up charity in lieu of cheap thrills.

Why I loathe mistletoe, fruitcake and bells --
And why I'll celebrate Xmas when it freezes in hell.
You'll never see this elf make angels in snow.
Hey thanks for the booze – so I guess here it goes:

"Twas the night after Christmas in the North Pole
No creatures were stirring, not one lousy soul.
Santa's house appeared eerily silent
But inside the fat man was hungry, was violent

This workshop of toys for kids of all ages
Was filled with elves quaking in cages.
Who woke up from their long winter's naps
To find themselves snared in a devious trap.

Hours before I had been bingeing on nog
Passed out under the bed, I spied the whole saga.
I saw all my brothers rounded up in cages.
Sleepy victims of wicked midnight rampages.

Then what to my horrified eyes should appear
But a wild-eyed Santa pinching an elf by the ear.
Each little sprite shook in their tights and boots.
That this monster was Santa, no one could refute.

His size and his beard gave him away as St. Nick
His fangs and his scales made me quite sick
Blood seemed to stain his white fluffy trim
He was hunched, drooling, and disgustingly slim.

"Come little helper! Climb into my maw!"
He laughed, then casually ate the elf raw.
He greedily sucked the imp's hide off the bone
I was awed! I was scared! I was truly alone!

Dainty elf paws clutched bars and cried
Drunk on deinal; confounded by why.
(He lost his count during his murderous spree
Thought he'd rounded up most, but forgot about me!)

His hunger was wracking his hunched-over frame
With a crippling appetite that didn't know shame.
"Don't eat us! We love you! Look at our faces!"
The doomed little elves made their sad cases

But Santa ignored them with a swipe of his fist
Pulled out some parchment and started a list:
"Silence, you nuggets – I'm trying to think
Who to char-broil, who to blend into drink.

Who to dice, fillet, bake or panfry
Who to boil in soup, who to stuff in a pie"
These taunts seemed so strange to come from a man
Who held the dreams of children in his hands

Teeth full of gristle, he then sadly revealed
To his captive chorus of angel-faced veal,
That humans are greedy, petty, drunk on their vices.
And each Yuletide revel exacts gruesome prices

These prices are paid by the magical gnomes
Who hammer the toys that clutter up homes.
The payment's a life – one for each holiday sin.
Delivered by Santa, after his joyful break-ins.

Perhaps he was cursed by the Easter Bunny
Or an April Fool's jester who thought it'd be funny.
The Great Pumpkin, Jack Frost or just maybe –
That jealous and bratty New Years Eve baby.

Maybe it was a clue, how well we were fed
On cookies, cakes, lard balls and bread.
But our nature's to love, not to distrust.
So we hugged the fat Claus's and finished each crust.

Ignorant to what would soon transpire
We'd collapse in heaps by the crackling fire.
Expecting the old man to come flying back
And start making next years toys for his sack.

But how does he have enough sprites for his belly?
The final act of sorrow starts as fetal elf jelly.
That ferments inside his wife until it's a broth
Filled with thimble-sized elves that surge forth like froth.

And these newborn elves, spawned pure from her womb.
Don't understand: their workshop is really a tomb
Their dimples are gumdrops, they sneeze pixie dust.
Santa doesn't hate them – he's cursed with a lust.

Elves are packed with vitamins A, C, and E
We're awfully juicy, tart yet also fruity,
We go well with gravy and mayonnaise and toast
But casserole is how Santa likes us the most.

Barbequed, fricasseed, or flambéed
Sunny-side up, shish-ka-bobbed or flayed.
Prepared anyway, our flesh is quite delicious
And it's not like toy-happy children will miss us.

Goodbye Carl, Zud, Sprinkles and Jan!
Blossom, Hortense, Cobweb, and Stan!
Julie, Miss Knickers, Fidget, and Ralph.
I'm sorry you're dead, you wonderful elf.

A mouthed greased with fat, Santa then hibernated.
As Mrs. Claus squatted and grossly gestated
And all that is left of my cherubic siblings.
Was a pile of bells, curly-toed boots – mostly elf things

So much for good cheer! But don't shed a tear:
This gruesome cycle has happened for hundreds of years.
And as the fist to survive Father's murderous rout
In a month I stopped hiding and got the hell out."

Now I spend my days soaking under a sun like a yolk
(Yeah, I wish I'd have saved all or some of my folk)
I now have a tan where the rum's in supply.
Sewing up flags for Captain Fourth of July.
bottle opener
How many men does it take to open a beer?
None, it should be opened by the time she brings it to you!
what are metaphors?
Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31 pence-a-pint night.

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer.

She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup.

Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.

Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center

Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19p.m.at a speed of 35 mph.

The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.

John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.

The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red crayon.

Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.

The door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of Family Fortunes.

Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter."

She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever seen before.

The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP, Leader of the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the suspension of Keith Vaz MP.

The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.

The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free cashpoint.

The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium.

It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a dustcart reversing.

She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.

She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef.

She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.

It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.

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