Plan B Forum

..not even a mouse.

I awoke on my couch , and what did I see?

a dead grey mouse, kitty left it for me......

it wasn t wrapped, but laid out with care,

it was laid on my table, like santa was there

my kitty named Possum, made the mouse play dead,

now visions of rodents, dance thru my head

merry Christmas to all, enjoy if you re able....

you must get a kitty, if you want mouse on your table

I first ran across this about 35 years ago. One cousin thought I wrote it, but I only copied it. just like today. At that time I was working for a firm that did government contracting as an editor of manuals written by engineers who were good engineers, but lousy writers.

Twas the Night Before Christmas' as written by a technical writer for a firm that does Gov't contracting...

'Twas The Night Before Christmas
'Twas the nocturnal segment of the diurnal period preceding the annual Yuletide celebration, and throughout our place of residence, kinetic activity was not in evidence among the possessors of this potential, including that species of domestic rodent known as Mus musculus. Hosiery was meticulously suspended from the forward edge of the wood burning caloric apparatus, pursuant to our anticipatory pleasure regarding an imminent visitation from an eccentric philanthropist among whose folkloric appellations is the honorific title of St. Nicholas.

The prepubescent siblings, comfortably ensconced in their respective accommodations of repose, were experiencing subconscious visual hallucinations of variegated fruit confections moving rhythmically through their cerebrums. My conjugal partner and I, attired in our nocturnal head coverings, were about to take slumberous advantage of the hibernal darkness when upon the avenaceous exterior portion of the grounds there ascended such a cacophony of dissonance that I felt compelled to arise with alacrity from my place of repose for the purpose of ascertaining the precise source thereof.

Hastening to the casement, I forthwith opened the barriers sealing this fenestration, noting thereupon that the lunar brilliance without, reflected as it was on the surface of a recent crystalline precipitation, might be said to rival that of the solar meridian itself - thus permitting my incredulous optical sensory organs to behold a miniature airborne runnered conveyance drawn by eight diminutive specimens of the genus Rangifer, piloted by a minuscule, aged chauffeur so ebullient and nimble that it became instantly apparent to me that he was indeed our anticipated caller. With his ungulate motive power travelling at what may possibly have been more vertiginous velocity than patriotic alar predators, he vociferated loudly, expelled breath musically through contracted labia, and addressed each of the octet by his or her respective cognomen - "Now Dasher, now Dancer..." et al. - guiding them to the uppermost exterior level of our abode, through which structure I could readily distinguish the concatenations of each of the 32 cloven pedal extremities.

As I retracted my cranium from its erstwhile location, and was performing a 180-degree pivot, our distinguished visitant achieved - with utmost celerity and via a downward leap - entry by way of the smoke passage. He was clad entirely in animal pelts soiled by the ebony residue from oxidations of carboniferous fuels which had accumulated on the walls thereof. His resemblance to a street vendor I attributed largely to the plethora of assorted playthings which he bore dorsally in a commodious cloth receptacle.

His orbs were scintillant with reflected luminosity, while his submaxillary dermal indentations gave every evidence of engaging amiability. The capillaries of his malar regions and nasal appurtenance were engorged with blood which suffused the subcutaneous layers, the former approximating the coloration of Albion's floral emblem, the latter that of the Prunus avium, or sweet cherry. His amusing sub- and supralabials resembled nothing so much as a common loop knot, and their ambient hirsute facial adornment appeared like small, tabular and columnar crystals of frozen water.

Clenched firmly between his incisors was a smoking piece whose grey fumes, forming a tenuous ellipse about his occiput, were suggestive of a decorative seasonal circlet of holly. His visage was wider than it was high, and when he waxed audibly mirthful, his corpulent abdominal region undulated in the manner of impectinated fruit syrup in a hemispherical container. He was, in short, neither more nor less than an obese, jocund, multigenarian gnome, the optical perception of whom rendered me visibly frolicsome despite every effort to refrain from so being. By rapidly lowering and then elevating one eyelid and rotating his head slightly to one side, he indicated that trepidation on my part was groundless.

Without utterance and with dispatch, he commenced filling the aforementioned appended hosiery with various of the aforementioned articles of merchandise extracted from his aforementioned previously dorsally transported cloth receptacle. Upon completion of this task, he executed an abrupt about- face, placed a single manual digit in lateral juxtaposition to his olfactory organ, inclined his cranium forward in a gesture of leave-taking, and forthwith effected his egress by renegotiating (in reverse) the smoke passage. He then propelled himself in a short vector onto his conveyance, directed a musical expulsion of air through his contracted oral sphincter to the antlered quadrupeds of burden, and proceeded to soar aloft in a movement hitherto observable chiefly among the seed-bearing portions of a common weed. But I overheard his parting exclamation, audible immediately prior to his vehiculation beyond the limits of visibility: "Ecstatic Yuletide to the planetary constituency, and to that self same assemblage, my sincerest wishes for a salubriously beneficial and gratifyingly pleasurable period between sunset and dawn."

Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney with presents to give
And just to see who in this cottage did live.

I looked all about — a strange sight I did see,
No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No socks by the fire, just boots filled with sand.
On the wall there hung pictures of far-distant lands.

And medals and badges, awards of all kind...
A sobering thought then came into my mind.
For this house — so different, so dark and so dreary —
Was the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly.

I'd heard stories about them, I had to see more
So I walked down the hall and pushed open the door.
And there he lay sleeping; silent, alone;
Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home.

His face was so gentle, the room in disorder,
Not how I pictured a United States soldier.
Was this man the hero of whom I’d just read?
Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?

His head was clean shaven, his weathered face tan,
I soon understood this was more than a man.
For I realized the families that I saw that night
Owed their lives to these men who were willing to fight.

Soon ‘round the world, the children would play,
Along with their parents on a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year,
Because of brave men like this one lying here.

And then I was thinking of the ones all alone
On a cold Christmas Eve in a land far from home.
Just the thought of this brought a hot tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees and I started to cry.

The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice,
"Santa, don’t cry, this life is my choice.
I fight for our freedom, I don’t ask for more,
my life is my God, my country, my Corps."

With that he rolled over and fell back asleep,
I couldn’t control it, I continued to weep.
I watched him for hours, so silent and still.
I noticed he shivered from the cold night air’s chill.

So I took off my warm coat, the one made of red,
And I covered this soldier from his toes to his head.
And I put on his T-shirt of gray, green, and black,
With the eagle and globe and an anchor on back.

It didn't quite fit me, but I still swelled with pride,
And knew what they meant when they said "Semper Fi".
But I still couldn't leave him this cold and dark night,
This guardian of honor so willing to fight.

Then the soldier rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure,
Said "It’s Christmas Day, Santa — Carry on, all's secure."
One look at my watch, and I knew he was right;
Merry Christmas, my friend, and to all a good night!

(this is not my own work; I merely edited it a bit to clean up the meter)

-"BB"-

That sounds like someone suffering with PTSD. Once the holiday season is over he should apply for aid at the VA. If he mentions the delusional story about Santa I bet he'd be eligible for a thorough psych-eval and detox. I'm fairly sure that if he signs up by January 4 he'll be a shoe-in for some help by July or August, no later than October.

May his next Xmas be merry and bright.