“Jesus Christ!” Grimm cried, his young voice clear and outraged like that of a young priest. “Has every preacher and old maid in Jefferson taken their pants down to the yellowbellied son of a bitch?”
——William Faulkner, “Light in August”
The news that the New York Times killed a story about the Bush administration’s decision to further remove themselves from the odious shackles of legality by just ignoring the laws on surveillance of US citizens is enough to cast a pall on even the sunniest of dispositions this holiday season. Not only did The Times bail on their journalistic responsibilities yet again, but it appears the administration have just flat fucking had it with democracy. Go figure.
We don’t own that sunniest of dispositions, but we feel nevertheless compelled to do what we can toward salvaging some holiday cheer. To that end, we offer up our time-sensitive interpretation of the classic “Night Before Christmas.” Enjoy, and for God’s sake don’t tell anyone where you heard it.
‘Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the house
every creature’d been tortured
including the mouse.
Grandpa was hung
from the doorframe with care;
And bound in a corner
was Grandma, quite bare.
For Mama and Papa,
some discreet waterboarding
might serve to uncover
the secrets they’re hoarding.
The children fared better,
just hooded and gagged,
for the CIA guys weren’t quite sure
what they’d bagged.
The thing started simply
(as things often do)
when Grandpa sent email
he later would rue:
“My idiot son
and his little Miss Thing
have unleashed on the world
a terrorist ring.”
He meant just that Junior’s
young children lacked manners,
and not that they marched
under terrorist banners,
but the NSA listeners
were carefully listening,
their eyes with the patriot’s
fervor were glistening,
and they knew in a flash
that they’d heard quite enough;
it was off with the kid gloves,
and high time to play rough.
It was well into morning
when the case finally broke
and it wasn’t the grownups,
but the children who spoke.
They gave up the red-suited
bagman named Nick
who snuck down the chimney
and out again, quick,
picking up messages
and laundering loot
while disguised with a beard
and that fairy-tale suit.
So don’t expect Christmas,
and take care whom you sass
’cause they’ve rendered St. Nick
and they’re watching your ass.
Now _that’s_ funny.