Twas the night before Christmas and throughout the White House,

Al Gore was eyeing Hillary, peering into her blouse.

The Secret Service were guarding the premises with care,

for a whole host of Democrats were vacationing there.

As Chelsea was nestled all snug in her bed,

dirty thoughts swam around Mr. Kennedy’s head.

And Bill in his sportcoat; a heavy gray tweed,

had just fried his brain with some Mexican weed.

When out in the garden came a plethora of noise,

all drunken and rowdy: ’twas Newt and the boys!

Bill jumped to the window, and tore open the sash,

“It’s a raid boys!” he cried, “Quick, go hide my stash!”

The pot in his blood and the moon on the snow,

gave a psychedelic haze to the objects below.

When what to Bill’s frantic eyes should appear, but a slew

of Republicans and a keg of ice beer.

With a big House leader, all lively and fat:

He knew it was Newt, the proponent of GATT!

As viscous as vipers, the Republicans came,

and Bill recognized them and called them by name.

“Hey Helms, Hey Thurmond! Hey Packwood and Hatch!

Hey Dole and Pataki, it’s time for a bash!”

A collective cheer rose out from the crowd,

“Let’s listen to Nugent, and turn it up loud!”

Together Dems and Republicans danced and sang out in cheer

“Screw health care and Haiti, it’s time to drink beer!”

When from the chimney, came a big black cloud of soot,

as Limbaugh danced from the fireplace in a red Santa suit.

He moved through the crowd, then held up his hand,

and when all was silent, he did a keg stand.

And the crowd raised their cups, as Newt bowed down in prayer,

and champagne flowed freely, just like welfare.

As Kennedy and Reno romped in the Green Room,

the rest of the crooks outlined their plan of doom.

“We’ll pray in the schools, shove it down their throats!”

“More welfare, more taxes, we’ll still get the votes!”

And they drank, hugged and danced, they crossed party lines.

They cheered, “It doesn’t matter, we’re all bastard swines!”

So they threw out allegiance and partisan crap,

and they took turns sitting on the President’s lap.

And Gephardt and Dole passed out on the lawn,

and awoke in the morning without their pants on.

And Packwood gave Tipper a pat on the rear.

While Judge Thomas and Miss Hill went out for more beer.

Then the party-ers discovered a sight so touching and cute,

President Clinton fast asleep, snuggled up next to Newt.

Santa Limbaugh smiled and threw up on his boots,

“A merry Clinton to all, and to all a good Newt!”

Q. What does a black boy get for Christmas? A. Your Bike.

A few years ago, we invited some friends over for a Christmas party. Many of my colleagues were there, and many of them are German. Helmut, Franz, and Rudolf were there.

I was talking to Rudolf about his belief in the superiority of the communist party. I grew tired of the discussion so I motioned towards the window and commented on the weather, “I believe it’s snowing”. “No, it looks too wet to be snow,” he said. The argument went back and forth for a few minutes: rain, snow, rain, snow…

Then my wife came over and settled the argument for us. She said: “Rudolf the Red knows rain, dear!”

Q: Why is Christmas just like a day at the office?

A: You do all the work and the fat guy with the suit gets all the credit.

On Christmas Eve Santa Claus was getting ready for his annual trip.

As he pulled his favorite pair of red pants on, they ripped. So, he had to take them off and put on another pair, which was a bit too tight. He then went to check on the rest of the preparations.

The elves were on strike. The reindeer had shin-splints. At this point, Santa was BUMMED.

He went into the kitchen to take a calming drink, and the bottle was EMPTY. Now he was really mad. All of sudden, there was a knock at the door.

Santa, in his angry state, ignored it. There was another knock. Santa was in no mood for all of this. When the knock came again, Santa –filled with rage– threw open the door.

Standing there was a little angel who said, “Hi Santa! What do you want me to do with this Christmas Tree?” Hence…the story of the Angel atop the tree.

Top 10 signs you bought a bad christmas tree:

10. Two feet tall, forty feet wide

9. Salesman’s opening line: “You’re not a cop, are you?”

8. It looks suspiciously like a broom handle with a lot of coat hangers stuck into it

7. While you sleep, it gets liquored up and takes the family caravan for a joy ride

6. Each branch has “Duraflame” printed on it

5. Keeps heckling while you try to do a lame top ten list

4. It’s very small and says “Air Freshener” on it

3. Rabbis have better Christmas trees than yours

2. Some guy named Mujibur puts a cheap Statue of Liberty on top of it

1. Constantly bragging about its “trunk size”

Schizophrenia — Do You Hear What I Hear?

Multiple Personality — We Three Queens Disoriented Are

Dementia — I Think I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Narcissistic — Hark the Herald Angels Sing (About Me)

Mania — Deck the Halls and Walls and House and Lawn and… or Deck the Halls and Spare No Expenses

Borderline Personality — Thoughts of Roasting in an Open Fire

Paranoia — Santa Claus is Coming To Get Me

Personality Disorder — You Better Watch Out, I’m Gonna Cry. I’m Gonna Pout, then MAYBE I’ll Tell You Why

Depression — Silent Anhedonia, Holy Anhedonia. All is Calm, All is Pretty Lonely

Obsessive Compulsive — Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock…

Passive Aggressive — On the First Day of Christmas My Mother Gave to Me… (And Then Took it All Away)

A Networkologist’s Christmas

“‘Tis the night before Christmas,” I thought with a frown. I was stuck at the office. The network was down. The routers were hung in the closet. All crashed. Their tables had holes in their data. All trashed.

Remote distribution, it seems, just for fun, Had erased DLLs Windows needed to run On 84 desktops way down in accounting. I sat stunned at my desk, my blood pressure mounting.

When all of a sudden there arose such a clatter, I saw that a server had something the matter. There was smoke coming out of the main hard disk drive. “No problem,” I thought. “I’m set up with RAID

5.”

But I found out the system I thought was unstoppable Had disk drives that turned out completely unswappable! “No problem,” I thought. “I’ve tape backup to thank.” And then I discovered my backups were blank.

The UPS burped, and its lights all went out. I started to scream! I started to shout! But nobody heard as I vented my rage. My gurus were all on vacation those days.

And nobody’s tech support answered the phone. I was nose deep in trouble, completely alone. When out at reception, I heard a soft knock. As the hands just touched midnight on my desktop clock.

“What’s your problem?” he asked. “Never mind, friend, I know. I checked out your network five hours ago. I did some proactive analysis, so

I knew that this time bomb was going to blow.” Who was this guy? Who did he think he was? He was dressed in red coveralls, white beard, black gloves. His eyes had the twinkle of technical genius.

His smile cut down personal distance between us. He spread out his tools, and went straight to his work. “Whoever configured this network’s a jerk,” He said with a as he quickly rebooted,

Uploaded some software, and smoothly rerouted The LAN to a WAN that he quickly supplied With bandwidth at least 20 gigabits wide That went via wireless, I think, LEO,

To tech support elves waiting at the North Pole. “Now bridging, now routing, now Ethernet hubs!” He chanted as each piece of hardware he rubbed. “Cheer up, my good friend! Lose that mindset so tragic!

Technology often looks just like some magic To people who don’t understand what we do. Now a switch, emulation, now middleware glue! Look at the protocols, check one or two,

Debug a bit, test a bit, presto! We’re through!” My data was back! Every system checked out! Tears of joy wet my face as I wandered about. “How can I thank you? You must be Saint Nick!”

He said, “Really, my friend, it’s not such a great trick, If you don’t give up hope, focus on what you’re doing, And read all your issues of NETWORK COMPUTING.” And I heard him exclaim, as his reindeer were coursing, “Merry Christmas to all! And consider outsourcing!”

A Night Before Christmas Parody (Technical Version)

‘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 Musmusculus.

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.”

HO! HO! HO!

THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS…. SANTA CRUZ STYLE…

On the 12th day of the Eurocentrically imposed midwinter festival, my Significant Other in a consenting adult, monogamous relationship gave to me:

TWELVE males reclaiming their inner warrior through ritual drumming,

ELEVEN pipers piping (plus the 18-member pit orchestra made up of members in good standing of the Musicians Equity Union as called for in their union contract even though they will not be asked to play a note),

TEN melanin deprived testosterone-poisoned scions of the patriarchal ruling class system leaping,

NINE persons engaged in rhythmic self-expression,

EIGHT economically disadvantaged female persons stealing milk-products from enslaved Bovine-Americans,

SEVEN endangered swans swimming on federally protected wetlands,

SIX enslaved Fowl-Americans producing stolen non-human animal products,

FIVE golden symbols of culturally sanctioned enforced domestic incarceration,

(NOTE after members of the Animal Liberation Front threatened to throw red paint at my computer, the calling birds, French hens and partridge have been reintroduced to their native habitat. To avoid further Animal-American enslavement, the remaining gift package has been revised.)

FOUR hours of recorded whale songs

THREE deconstructionist poets

TWO Sierra Club calendars printed on recycled processed tree carcasses and…

ONE Spotted Owl activist chained to an old-growth pear tree.