Archived at: http://www.alchemistmatt.com/twas/

Contains 849 versions of the classic poem, including headers from most of the posts and credits when available. The versions range from innocent and cute to vulgar and obscene, so read at your own discretion. I have collected most of these versions by searching the newsgroups using Google Groups and the now retired Deja News. I'd be happy to receive any additional versions you might have.

See the Main Index for the complete contents.

Short Title: AfterChanukah

From bugman@airmail.net Mon Dec 14 08:15:32 1998
Date: Sun, 13 Dec 1998 19:53:57 -0600
From: Bugman Ron 
To: unlisted-recipients:  ;
Subject: Twas the Month after Chanukah

             Twas the Month after Chanukah

    Twas the month after Chanukah, and all through the house
      Nothing would fit me, not even a blouse.
    The cookies I'd nibble, the latkas I'd taste
      At Chanukah parties had gone to my waist.

    When I got on the scales there arose such a number!
      When I walked to the store (less a walk than a lumber).
    I'd remember the marvelous meals I'd prepared;
      The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared,

    The wine or the egg creams, the bread and the cheese
      and the way I'd never said, "No thank you, please."
    As I dressed myself in my husband's old shirt
      and prepared once again to do battle with dirt---

   I said to myself, as only I can
     "You can't spend the winter disguised as a man!"
   So--away with the last of the sour cream dip,
     Get rid of all chocolate, each cracker and chip

   Every last bit of food that I like must be banished
    "Till all the additional ounces have vanished.
  I won't have a cookie--not even a lick.
    I'll want to chew only a long celery stick.

  I won't have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie,
    I'll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.
  I'm hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore---
    But isn't that what January is for?
  Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.
    Happy New Year to all and to all a good diet!

  [By Bill Stebbins, according to
  http://www.spring-tree.com/christmas.html]


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Short Title: AfterChristmas1

Newsgroups: rec.humor
Subject: The Day After Christmas
From: davidf@zimmer.CSUFresno.EDU (David Frank)
Date: Wed, 21 Dec 1994 19:45:12 GMT

The Day After Christmas
    by
David Frank

'Twas the day after Christmas and all through the house
Children sat slack-jawed, bored on the couch.

Wrappings and toys littered the floor,
An incredible mess that I did abhor.

With Mom in her robe and I in my jeans,
We waded in to get the place clean.

When suddenly the doorbell: it started to clatter,
I sprang to the Security-View to check out the matter.

The new-fallen snow, now blackened with soot,
Was trampled and icy and treacherous to foot.

But suddenly in view, did I gasp and pant:
An unhappy bill collector and eight tiny accountants.

The door flew open and in they came,
Stern-looking men with bills in my name.

On Discover, on Visa, on American Express,
On Mastercard too, I sadly confess,
Right to my limits, then beyond my net worth,
OUer the top I had charged, in a frenzy of mirth.

The black-suited men, so somber, so strict,
I wondered why me that they had first picked.

They stared at me with a look I couldn't miss,
That said "Buddy, when are you for paying for this?"

I shrugged my shoulders, but then I grew bolder,
Went to the cabinet and pulled out a folder.

"As you can see," I said with a smile,
"It's bankruptcy that I'll have to file!"
And with a swoop of my arm, my middle digit extended
I threw the bills in the fire: the matter had ended.

The scent of burnt ash came to my nose,
As up the chimney my credit-worthiness rose.

Without another word they turned and walked out,
Got into their limos, but one gave a shout:
"You may think that's the answer to all of your fears,
But it's nothing you'll charge for at least seven years!


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Short Title: AfterChristmas2

   Author:   Kathy Bloom
   Email: kathybloom@email.msn.com
   Date: 1998/12/06
   Forums: microsoft.public.inetexplorer.ie4.outlookexpress.stationery

      'Twas the Night After Christmas

Twas the night after Christmas and all through the place
any creature that stirred fell flat on her face.

We'd ripped open the treasures and ransacked the stockings,
the amount of goodies we ate was quite shocking.

No one knew how St. Nick had got in while we dozed,
for the doors were all locked and the chimney was closed.

But we knew he'd been here and he didn't leave coal,
and 12 hours later, all the fun took its toll.

The children were nestled wherever they fell,
and Mommy and Daddy were feeling quite swell.

We all had survived a fine Holiday Season,
without losing our sanity, for some unknown reason.

The tree and the trimmings were still standing intact.
Awful gifts from the "great" aunts could all go back

to the stores with the kids' reject mufflers and hats,
to trade for the perfect glove and/or bat.

Just 24 hours ago we all swore
we'd never re-enter another mall store.

"Not for any reason, wild horses can't drag
us back to those mobs," we'd been heard to brag.

"But, Lord, did you see what Aunt Ethel has sent?"

"We can get something cool with the money she spent.

These clothes are so lame," said the kids in a twinkling,
and I thought to myself, What on earth was she thinking?

So we fell asleep on couch, floor or beds,
while visions of super sales danced in our heads.

But most of the wonders we'd unwrapped were great,
though some of the shopping was done rather late.

Still we loved all the toys and the tools and the dresses,
but what I need now is some help with the messes.

The den has been trashed, the living room's missing.
The toddler just fell and her "owwie" needs kissing.

The teenager's ear appears stuck to the phone,
yet he's blasting a tape by some "thugs" he calls Bone.

The kitchen may need some paint and some plaster.
The dinner, delicious, the stove's a disaster.

There's not a clean plate, glass or spoon to be found
I can't find the counter, my head's starting to pound!

Quick, somebody, open this tight childproof cap.
Never mind, there's no water, I buried the tap.

And so as we bask in the Holiday glow
with all of the loved ones and friends that we know,
I'll repeat this again and get it just right,


Merry Christmas to all, and now please, kids, good night!


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Short Title: AfterChristmas3

Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2000 20:34:05 -0800
From: Sandcastles 

   Twas the Day AFTER Christmas

 Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
 Every creature was hurting, even the mouse.
 The toys were all broken, their batteries dead;
 Santa passed out, with some ice on his head.

 Wrapping and ribbons just covered the floor, 
 While upstairs the family continued to snore.
 And I in my T-shirt, new Reeboks, and jeans,
 I went into the kitchen and started to clean.

 When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
 I sprang from the sink to see what was the matter.
 Away to the window I flew like a flash,
 Tore open the curtains, and threw up the sash.

 When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
 But a little white truck, with an oversized mirror.
 The driver was smiling, so lively and grand;
 The patch on his jacket said "U.S. POSTMAN."

 With a handful of bills, he grinned like a fox
 Then quickly he stuffed them into our mailbox.
 Bill after bill, after bill, they still came.
 Whistling and shouting he called them by name:

 "Now Dillard's, now Broadway's, now Penny's and Sears
 Here's Robinson's, Levitz's and Target and Mervyn's.
 To the tip of your limit, every store, every mall,
 Now charge away-charge away-charge away all!"

 He whooped and he whistled as he finished his work.
 He filled up the box, and then turned with a jerk.
 He sprang to his truck and he drove down the road,
 Driving much faster with just half a load.

 Then I heard him exclaim with great holiday cheer,
 "Enjoy what you got. . . . . .you'll be paying all year!"


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Short Title: AfterChristmas4

From: Robert McClelland (robert.mcclelland@sympatico.ca)
Subject: Time to kick off the holiday season 
Newsgroups: misc.writing
Date: 2002-12-06 12:21:19 PST 

'Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, cause we all were still soused;
The stockings were slung `cross the tree without care,
Cause mom got real drunk and had sex with dad there;

The children were grounded and confined to their beds,
They had caused such a ruckus and got smacked on their heads;
And me with bare head since I'd thrown up in my cap,
Had just woken up from my long drunken nap,

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed, I was mad and getting matter.
Stumbled to the window, banged my head, saw a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up on the sash.

The sun on the breast of the new-fallen snow
hurt my eyes, made me dizzy, I thought I'd fall below,
When, what to my bleary eyes should appear,
But a white postal truck, decorated with eight tiny reindeer,

With a union driver, not so lively or so quick,
I knew in a moment this could not be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles from the truck the bills came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them all by name;

"Now MASTERCARD! Now AMEX! And VISA that VIXEN!
The interest they'll charge! You shouldn't have gone a'BLITZEN!
They want their money! Your back's against the wall!
You spent too much! You spent too much! Now you must pay them all!"

As dry heaves overcame me, I tried to flee, tried to fly,
I clasped my hands together and offered a prayer up to the sky,
So into the mailbox, the bills they all flew,
To add injury to insult, my tax bill was there too.

And then, a thought occured, I'd climb up on the roof
And throw myself off, to be trampled under hoof.
As I climbed out the window, a noise caused me to turn around,
Through the front door, the postal worker came with a great bound.

He was dressed all in nylon, with mismatched boots on each foot,
He reeked of cheap gin and smelled of pipe soot;
A bundle of bills he had flung on his back,
He looked like a bum, lit a cig and threw away the empty pack.

He was ugly and plump, a right smelly old elf,
And I gagged when I smelled him, I couldn't help myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Made me think he was gay and I soon filled with dread;

He farted, oh my word and went straight to his work,
unloading all the bills ; I thought he was a jerk,
And putting his finger inside of his nose,
He pulled out a booger and admired it like a rose;

Then he sprang to his truck, now wheezing like a whistle,
And careened down the street like the down of a thistle.
But I saw him give me the finger, ere he drove out of sight,
"I HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD TIME, YOU'LL BE SUFFERING A FORT-NIGHT."

- by Robert McClelland 


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Short Title: AFU(AltFolkloreUrban)

   Author:   Tom Cikoski
   Email: splinter@panix.com
   Date: 1998/12/23
   Forums: alt.folklore.urban
   
Official AFU Clement Clarke Moore Parody
----------------------------------------

Twas the night before Christmas
throughout AFU.
Not an Old Hat was posting,
and lurkers were few.

The legends were hung
on the newsfeed with care
in hopes that the FAQ maven
soon would be there.

The newbies who snuggled
all clutching their mice,
thought Email from Kibo
would surely be nice.

While I in my condom
and Ma in her teddy
had just settled down
for a romp on the beddie.

When out of the Sparc
there arose such a clatter,
I abandoned my S O
to admin the matter.

I opened a shell tool
and typed in some pings.
I started a daemon
and other such things.

In the light of the raster,
a flickering glow,
X Windows fell open
like new flakes of snow.

Then what I beheld
made me call to my wife.
There were dozens of FAQ entries
coming to life!

There was Shergold and Blue Star,
the Hook Hand, the Slasher.
Pull tabs and kidneys,
a Gang Headlight Flasher.

There was Coke in a douche bag,
a Mexican pet.
A Vanished Hitch Hiker,
the scariest yet!

There were legends and rumours
and stories galore.
And when they came at me
I ran for the door.

But none of them hurt me,
they made me their friend.
They wanted to tell me
this wasn't the end.

They'd be there forever,
and never complain.
If only we'd post them
again and again.

I said I would do so.
My word had they earned.
So back to the news group
they slowly returned.

And I saw them broadcast,
As they logged off the net,
Have a wonderful season!
The best you can get!

( )_( )
 \. ./
 _=.=_
   "   -- Best wishes once again
          from our rat's nest to yours


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Short Title: Airplane

From: Dick Baker - Falls Church, Virginia, USA
Date: 12/22/02

I read about your noble efforts in today's Washington Post, so I went to 
your web site looking for the version, below, which I received several 
times from my various fellow pilots this year.  I didn't find it, so am 
including it here.


The Night Before Christmas - Aviation Style

'Twas the night before Christmas, and out on the ramp,
Not an airplane was stirring, not even a Champ.
The aircraft were fastened to tiedowns with care,
In hopes that come morning, they all would be there.

The fuel trucks were nestled, all snug in their spots,
With gusts from two-forty at 39 knots.
I slumped at the fuel desk, now finally caught up,
And settled down comfortably, resting my butt.

When the radio lit up with noise and with chatter,
I turned up the scanner to see what was the matter.
A voice clearly heard over static and snow,
Called for clearance to land at the airport below.

He barked his transmission so lively and quick,
I'd have sworn that the call sign he used was "St. Nick".
I ran to the panel to turn up the lights,
The better to welcome this magical flight.

He called his position, no room for denial,
"St. Nicholas One, turnin' left onto final."
And what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Rutan-built sleigh, with eight Rotax Reindeer!

With vectors to final, down the glideslope he came,
As he passed all fixes, he called them by name:
"Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacun!
On Comet! On Cupid!" What pills was he takin'?

While controllers were sittin', and scratchin' their head,
They phoned to my office, and I heard it with dread,
The message they left was both urgent and dour:
"When Santa pulls in, have him please call the tower."

He landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking,
Then I heard "Left at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking."
He slowed to a taxi, turned off of three-oh
And stopped on the ramp with a "Ho, ho-ho-ho..."

He stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk,
I ran out to meet him with my best set of chocks.
His red helmet and goggles were covered with frost
And his beard was all blackened from Reindeer exhaust.

His breath smelled like peppermint, gone slightly stale,
And he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't inhale.
His cheeks were all rosy and jiggled like jelly,
His boots were as black as a cropduster's belly.

He was chubby and plump, in his suit of bright red,
And he asked me to "fill it, with hundred low-lead."
He came dashing in from the snow-covered pump,
I knew he was anxious for drainin' the sump.

I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,
And I filled up the sleigh, but I spilled like a jerk.
He came out of the restroom, and sighed in relief,
Then he picked up a phone for a Flight Service brief.

And I thought as he silently scribed in his log,
These reindeer could land in an eighth-mile fog.
He completed his pre-flight, from the front to the rear,
Then he put on his headset, and I heard him yell, "Clear!"

And laying a finger on his push-to-talk,
He called up the tower for clearance and squawk.
"Take taxiway Charlie, the southbound direction,
Turn right three-two-zero at pilot's discretion"

He sped down the runway, the best of the best,
"Your traffic's a Grumman, inbound from the west."
Then I heard him proclaim, as he climbed thru the night,
"Merry Christmas to all! I have traffic in sight."

=======================
Original by anonymous

--
--------------------------------------------
   Dick Baker - Falls Church, Virginia, USA
               dickbkr@goon.org


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Short Title: Airplane2

Submitted by: Alan K. Stebbens
December 2002

The Aviator's Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, and out on the ramp,
Not an airplane was stirring, not even a Champ.
The aircraft were fastened to tiedowns with care
in hopes that come morning, they all would be there.

The fuel trucks were nestled, all snug in their spots,
while peak northwest gusts reached 39 knots.
I sat near the fuel desk, at last all caught up,
and settled down comfortably upon my butt.

When over the radio, there arose such a clatter,
I turned up the scanner to see what's the matter.
A voice clearly heard over static and snow,
asked for clearance to land at the airport below.

He barked out his transmission so lively and quick,
I could have sworn that the call sign he used was "St.Nick". 
Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
Sure that it was only Horizon's late Dash.

Then he called his position, and there could be no denial, 
"This is St. Nicholas One, and I'm now turning final." 
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
A Rutan sleigh, and eight Rotax Reindeer.

Cleared for the ILS, down the glideslope he came,
As he passed all fixes, he called them by name:
"Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacun!
On Comet! On Cupid!" What pills was he takin'!?

The last several fixes left the controllers confused,
they called down to the office to give me the news.
The message they left was both urgent and dour:
"When Santa pulls in, could he please call the tower?"

He landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking,
Then I heard "Exit at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking."
He slowed to a taxi and exited Three-Two,
as he came down the taxiway the sleigh bells'jingle grew.

He stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk,
I had run out to him with my best set of chocks.
He was dressed all in fur, which was covered with frost
and his beard was all blackened from Rotax Reindeer exhaust.

His breath smelled like peppermint, gone slightly stale
and he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't inhale.
His cheeks were rosy and jiggled like jelly,
His boots were as black as a cropdusters belly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old fool,
and he kindly informed me that he needed some fuel.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his toes,
led me to know he was desperate to powder his nose.

I spoke not a word, but went straight to work,
and I filled up the sleigh, but I spilled like a jerk.
He came out of the restroom with a sigh of relief,
and then picked up a phone for a flight service brief.

And I thought as he silently scribed in his log,
that with Rudolph, he could land in eighth-mile fog.
He completed his preflight, from the front to the rear,
then he put on his headset, and I heard him yell "Clear!"

And laying a finger on his push-to-talk,
He called up the tower for his clearance and squawk.
"After departure fly heading three two zero," the tower called forth, 
"and watch for a Luscombe inbound from the North."

Then I heard him exclaim, as he climbed in the night,
"Merry Christmas to all, the traffic's in sight."


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Short Title: AirWarrior

Subject:      Air Warrior Xmas
From:         no@star.edu (E.G.)
Date:         1997/12/03
Message-ID:   
Newsgroups:   alt.games.air-warrior

The following was posted on the AOL MacAW message boards, and is re-posted
here, with permission from jetjock:


Subj:  An Air Warrior Christmas
Date:  12/2/97 2:22:46 PM
From:  Jetmech15
Posted on:  America Online

Twas the night before Christmas, when in the Air Warrior sky,
There were a few of us pilots, flying up high,
My ammo was hung in the wings with care,
Hoping an enemy plane will bring them to bare,
The ground crews were all at the pub,
Talking about all kinds of hubb bubb,
Me in my flight suit, and leather cap,
There was no time for me to take a nap,
When all of a sudden, the radar lit up,
I looked east then west, north and south, no visual was made, was I out of luck
,
The dot was red, no green, oh hell now its blue,
For I dont know what country this chap flew,
In the direction of this dot is the way I headed,
Hoping it wasn't a Spit, the plane that I dreaded,
At 1500 yards what to my wondering eyes should appear,
I'll be damned, its a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
At 800 yards, a lead turn I start,
I feel something pounding, it must be my heart,
As I finished my turn, lining up on his six,
My engine quit, oh what a fix,
I was out of fuel,
There would be no duel,
And with just the wind sound in my cockpit, oh what a shame,
I heard that fat man whistle and call them by name,
"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder! and Blitzen!
Lets get out of here, for this pilot is LAME!!!!"
And in a flash, he was out of sight,
Just as I saw the first mornings light,
I headed to the "O" club after this flight,
To knock back a few, and forget about this night!!!!!!!!!!!

To all my fellow Air Warrior pilots Az, Bz, and Cz
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Jetjock<1st Royal Guard>
 

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Short Title: Al2K(WeirdAlYankovic)

   Forum: alt.music.weird-al
   Subject:  'Twas the Night Before AlTV2K
   Date: 12/07/1999
   Author: katchoo812 
   
   I read a recent post asking for an irish parody of Twas the Night
   Before Christmas.  Well, I'm not too familiar with Irish culture, but
   it did give me an idea.  Here is my early Christmas gift to this
   discussion group:
   
   'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE AL2K
   
   Twas the night before Al2K, and all through the cave
   Not a creature was stirring, not Harvey, Jon or Steve
   The lederhosen were hung by the camera with care
   In hopes of great interviews with Tyler and Cher

   Yes, Cher was the envy of every Al-gal
   'cause she was all ready to do it with Al
   They talked of tour buses they filled up with jelly
   Cher shook and she laughed with Al's finger in her belly

   Fiona's new album (I won't even try to print the title because its so
     ridiculously unbeleivably long)
   Just won't hold a candle to that new "Cell Phones" song 
   I never saw Spice Girls that giggled so fast
   And Snoop Dog did not pop a cap in Al's @*!

   I'm sure that Van Halen may find it unnerving
   To discover their new lead's some Al-fan named Irving
   I learned so much watching the educational films
   Tie yourself into bed or you'll fall and get killed

   Drop hot irons on heads around daddies and mommies
   Always check your bike for bombs planted by commies
   Al sawing his arm off made everyone squirm
   But the Al-gals went nuts when our Alfie played "Germs" 

   This stalker loved Al 'cause he's such a cool man
   Hey, didn't he kind of remind you of-Uh-oh!
   There goes Harvey! I hope he's okay!
   Oh, and Running With Scissors was great, by the way

   Bermuda's cameo made the newsgroup go ga-gaa
   We found Snoop Dog's fave Teletubbie is La-laa
   I liked that clip from the Hanson video
   and that crazy Bjork song with cartoons from Spumco

   Another great moment in AlTV2K
   was when Snoop almost opened his eyes all the way!
   Well, watching that special filled me with delight
   Merry Christmas to all! May your spatulas be bright!
   
   Love,
   Katchoo =) (Feel free to ad verses!)

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Short Title: AltAdoption

Subject: 'Twas The Night Before New Years 
Date: 12/26/1999 
Author: LilMtnCbn  
Newsgroup: alt.adoption

'Twas the night before New Year's and all through a.a.
Not a poster was stirring, not Nettie, or Jay
The searchers were quiet, no flames or fights
The wars had ceased for this cold winter night
Triadians were nestled all snug in their beds
Dreams of sprogs and sporks danced in their heads
 
I'd just logged off and settled down in the dark
To ring in the new year with champagne and Dick Clark
When out of my 'puter, there arose such a clatter
I sprang to my desk to see what was the matter
Away to my PC, I flew like a flash
"Damn Bill Gates, " I snarled, "Not ANOTHER damn crash!" 
 
The monitor trembled and shook and smashed to the floor
And suddenly there was a BANG at the door
I wondered if I should go find my gun
but it was an a.a. Brigade led by the ALL POWERFUL ONE!
Kim said, "I've already told you that PC's are crap.....
so we've come to bring you a Blueberry IMAC".
 
More rapid than eagles her comrades they came
And she smiled and she laughed and she called them by name
"Now Linda, Now Susan, Now Lisa-Boo,
Come Dana, Come Daisy and Jeanette you come too.
Let's go Ladies, and be on our way
To deliver millenium gifts to our friends at a.a."
 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly
They boarded the mothership and flew through the sky
Over the housetops and over the country they flew
With purses full of good wishes, (and IMACs too)
They also had hay for the cow in the shed
and Depends for adoptees who still wet the bed
 
In their red velvet minis, spike heels and tin hats
(I'll bet Santa never looked half as good as all that)
They sent Hope---to Henry, Elaine, and Julia too
that their New Year's wishes would all come true
They sent Joy---to Jackie, to Kathy, to Steve
and to Di and to Shelly, can you believe!!
 
They sent Peace---to Heather, to Duckster and Mary
and also to Lainie, to Marley and Gary
And they didn't forget Jim, Rupa or Don
or Shea, Al, Kate, Sue, Karen or Ron
On top of everything that they had to do...
Kim even sent Bill Pierce a migraine or two.....
 
They sent hopes from the triad for the next 100 years
no more secrets and lies from those we hold dear
And we heard them exclaim as they beamed up in the night
"May the year 2000 grant us our same civil rights!"
 
........With BIG apologies to Clement Moore
 
May all of you at alt.adoption have a wonderful holiday season!  
Thanks so much for all the info, support and entertainment thru the year!  :-)
 
Marla

 

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Short Title: AltAlien1

From: jeff george (whizbang@interaccess.nospam.com)
Subject: Twas the night before Christmas..... 
Newsgroups: alt.paranet.ufo, alt.alien.visitors, alt.alien.research
Date: 2001-12-24 21:11:21 PST 

Twas the night before Christmas
and all the in-laws are out,
and Sir Art is a loony,
of this there's no doubt.

Then along comes Jimmy G.
like the brainless brontosaurus
with another huge repost
with which to bore us

while my wife toils upstairs
and certainly wishes
that soon I'd stop typing
and help her with dishes

but there's kooks and there's loonies
and William Cooper nuts
and crop circle fanatics
with less brains than guts

but the government pays us
to post disinformation
while Arthur keeps forgetting
to take his medication

(altho' Art's a fake doctor
who fits no description
and who should write himself
an equally fake prescription)

but now all our children
are safe in their beds
with false memories and implants
imbedded in their heads

but when aliens came
to abduct this poor mortal
they said "You're too fat
to fit through the portal"

So as they rose to the mothership
they cackled with a sneer
"Do some situps, you dummy,
and we'll abduct you next year."

Whizbang's Unholy Empire of Correct Opinions
----------------------------------------------------
http://yin.interaccess.com/~whizbang


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Short Title: AltAlien2

From: E. L. (nyceddie@webtv.net)
Subject: Re: The Night Be4 Christmas 
Newsgroups: alt.alien.research, alt.alien.visitors
Date: 2001-12-24 13:45:09 PST 
 
Re: The Night Before Christmas   
 
Group: alt.alien.research Date: Mon, Dec 24, 2001, 1:31am (EST+5) From:
nospam@newsranger.com (Harlow?Campbell) 
"Carl Wilson"  wrote in message
news:u2cued8s5olu48@news.supernews.com... 

'Twas the night before Christmas, 
and pouring down rain, 
Not much was working, 
especially Ray's brain. 

He stared at his monitor 
in the usual way, 
When from Ed comes a message, 
"Please send me more hay!" 

The kooks were nestled 
all snug in their beds, 
While visions of gang-probes 
danced in their heads 

'Ms. M' was a-ranting 
while Ben took his nap 
When Twonky discovered, "
My shit tastes like crap!" 

When out on the lawn 
there arose such a clatter, 
Caused by Ed the horse
as he fell over the ladder.

Away to the window 
Ben flew like a flash,
While Ray yelled "cops" 
and flushed down his stash. 

Out in the taverns,
A few kooks were drinking, 
Hoping that alcohol 
would un-fuck their thinking. 

When all of a sudden 
the door opened wide, 
In came an alien who shouted,
"There's a talking horse outside!" 

The kooks all jumped, 
full of great glee 
When Twonky proclaimed, 
"My piss tastes like pee!" 

LMAO


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Short Title: AltAndy

Email: @students.wisc.edu
Author:   StargirlNikita
Date: 1998/11/23
Forums: alt.andy.whine.whine.whine
   
   Why Santa Doesn't Exist
   A theoretical dissertation in trochaic quatrameter
   By N. S.

Twas the night before Christmas and only God will know
why there are so many hiatuses for my favorite show.
Of course, Conan, and Andy and all the rest too,
could explain to me why they always do.

Tonight, this laid not heavily on my mind,
for this year I asked for a present of a different kind.
To Santa I wrote, "Would you please have a heart,
and send me that from which I'll never part,

All I want is a memory or two
from a Late Night taping I've never gone to.
All I need is a plane ticket and a seat,
I know this can't be that big of a feat."

The next morning I arose with great anticipation.
As I ran down the stairs, I filled with elation.
Under the tree, I found not what I wanted,
but socks and underwear that couldn't be flaunted.

A note was attached, it explained why,
and I read it as I let out a great sigh.
"Dear Nicole, I know this isn't what you'd prefer,
but it's more practical and all that much cheaper."

My anger grew like nuclear fission,
'till I decided to make it my mission.
I'm sure I wasn't the only one
to ask for this, and naught have won.

I took my plea to the most logical of places,
The Internet had plenty of spaces.
A certain group I knew would agree,
and help my cause without a fee.

And so I started to type away,
hoping alt.andy would help me in some way.
Indeed they heard my desperate plea,
alas, this wrong was not done only by me.

We hatch a plan not at all mundane,
to make certain thios would not happen again.
We pawned the undergarments not too late,
and flew to the Northpole to meet our Fate.

There we met Santa, cozy by the fire,
and demanded that which we so much desire.
When again he refused to grant our wish,
we killed him with a frozen fish.

And that is why, to this day,
Sant cannot be heard to say,
"Ho, Ho, Ho, and a Merry Christmas too",
because he messed with the wrong people and therefore was screwed.

The end :)

--
'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'
Nikita's Bucket O' Fun
www.angelfire.com/mn/stargirlNikita/index.html
*This TV fits right in me handbag! -COB
*Not all who wander are lost  --Anon
 

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Short Title: AltArtsPoetryComments1

From: Patrick (thomsonpat@home.com)
Subject: Merry Christmas 
Newsgroups: alt.arts.poetry.comments
Date: 2001-12-23 23:16:38 PST 

Twas the night before Christmas
I checked Outlook Express.
I found "Poetry Comments"
oh God what a mess.

They waxed and they waned
of the moon and the sun.
Some were long some were short
and a couple undone.

One theme stood out
in most of these rhymes.
Depression and sadness
and talk of sad times.

And nobody writes
like they talk in real life.
When was the last time
you cleaved to your wife.

I know that I'm right
I think you all know it,
but it's really quite hip
to sound like a dead poet.

And then there's a few
who post to this place
that must have spent time
somewhere out in space.

Golden shower's and crystals
and sweet cannabis leaves.
Lets just not go there
enough said about these.

And then there are some
who do nothing but whine,
that your meter is off
or your words just don't rhyme

Where is it written that you
can't have some fun.
Lets throw in a limerick
or maybe a pun.

Well I'm done with thing
and what bothers me most,
is that some of you wont
crack a smile at my post.

How many don't laugh
there just is no telling,
but I know their the ones
who are checking my speling.

Please don't get all anal
I really don't care what you write
Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good night.


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Short Title: AltArtsPoetryComments2

From: Michael Cook (cook368@ameritech.net)
Subject: Re: Peter J./ 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through aapc 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems, alt.arts.poetry.comments
Date: 2002-11-26 21:17:05 PST 
 
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through aapc
Not a poet was stirring, not even Janet/chucke;
The poems were posted with nntp and much care,
In hopes a favorable critique soon would be there;

The critics were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Nobel danced in their heads;
Lynda in her bodice, and I recovering from the clap,
Had just settled down to write some more crap,

When out in the newsgroup there arose so much chatter,
I sprang to my newsreader to see what was the matter.
Away to the aapc I flew like a flash,
Tore open the posts I was itching for a clash.

His hand on the breast of a new-fallen floose
Jr gave new meaning to reading the news,
When, what to my tearing eyes should appear,
But a miniature flood, posted with no fear,

Then a little old poet so pointed his wit.
I knew it must be St. Peter, Peter the Brit
More rapid than eagles his curses they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, DIA! now, Bindi! now, MICHAEL and JAS!
On, Tolis! on TOM! on, Benders and BISHOP!
To the top of the post! to the top of them all!
Piss him off and dash away! dash away all!"

As dry heaves that before the throne do fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, never are they shy,
So up to the top their cursors they flew,
With a responses full of verbs, and a noun or two.

And then, in a twinkling, there came this big goof
with giggles an spittle and stomping a cloven hoof.
Down the chimney, Charles came with a bound.
I drew a deep breath, and was fixin' to pound,

He was dressed all in rags, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of hot goods he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a drug peddler who had just snorted some crack.

His eyes -- how bloodshot! his dimples what a fairy!
His cheeks were all hollow, his nose like a canary!
drooling from his mouth, his nose full of blow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a cigar he held tight in rotten teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a fat ugly face and a flabby round belly,
That shook, when he sneered like a bucketful of jelly.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And stole all the stockings; what a fucking jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
he flicked a booger then up the chimney he rose;

He hotwired a Dodge, to a passing chick he gave a whistle,
And away he flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"FUCK YOU ALL AND TO ALL A FUCKING GOOD-NIGHT."


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Short Title: AltBadClams1

Subject:      Christmas Poem
From:         "Doc Clamiday" 
Date:         1997/12/23
Message-ID:   <67p1em$9fv@mtinsc03.worldnet.att.net>
Newsgroups:   alt.bad.clams

The Bivalves' Christmas -
A tale told by my crass Uncle Ostrea

'Twas the night before Christmas,
And on the mud flat,
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a spat.

The clams were nestled
All snug in their beds
While visions of plankton
Danced in their heads.

And I in my mantle
And Virginica in her shell
Had just settled down
From a long filtering spell
When out in the marsh
There arose such a clatter
I opened my valves
To see what was the matter.

Worms rose from their tubes,
Scallops blinked their blue eyes;
Clams stuck up their siphons,
Mussels gaped in surprise.

For there, on the crest of the incoming tide,
Festooned in seaweed,
On a dolphin did ride,
None other than Neptune,
Saint Nick of the deep,
Accompanied by mermaids
Just risen from sleep.

And in his wake,
By the light of old Luna,
I thought I espied
An entire school of tuna;
Not the chunk light variety,
But real albacore(!)
And with them were sturgeons,
Sea bass and more.

Crustaceans too:
Portunus, Penaeus,
Most every variety
Named by Linnaeus.
They all followed Neptune,
Who rode to the beach,
And as he dismounted
They stayed within reach.

With theatrical fanfare
He opened his pack
And poured out his gifts
On the Spartina rack.

He passed out Artemia
(Brine shrimp to you),
Purina fish chow,
And shrimp pellets too.
He had freeze dried krill
And bloodworms galore.
He passed out the goodies
Till there weren't any more.

Not a one was forgotten
Who swims in the sea.
But think on it now,
Does that include me?
That's right he'd omitted
The bivalves completely:
No algae to filter,
No diatoms to treat me!

There ensued a great silence
As the truth slowly dawned:
They'd gotten nothing
And the gifts were all gone!

Then there came a great cry
Of dismay from the muck,
And the bivalves rose up
To the last geoduck,
Demanding to know
(Could there be a good reason?)
Why Saint Nick had forgotten them
This Christmas season.

Not all clams were bad!
The scallops were ignorant.
The mussels may have conspired,
But the oysters were innocent.
And what of the cockles?
They'd done no one a wrong.
And thus in this vein
The clamoring went on.

Neptune climbed a high rock,
For protection may be,
But it had this advantage-
From the mud we could see
As he flourished his trident,
Silencing the crowd,
Then pronounced in a voice
That was righteously loud:

Frankly, Scallop, I don't give a clam!

-------
Merry Christmas Clams!
--
Doc Clamiday
phadleyiii@worldnet.att.com
to reply change com to net

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Short Title: AltBadClams2

From: St NickClam (SNC@NORTHPOLE.ORG)
Subject: Happy Merry RamaChanQuanzMas Everybody! 
Newsgroups: alt.bad.clams
Date: 2002-12-21 06:36:45 PST 

THE TIDE BEFORE CLAMCHAT

'Twas the tide before ClamChat, when all through the bay
Not a mollusc was stirring, not even Clamaday;
The /nicks were all entered into Dalnet with care,
In hopes that Dr Frankenclam soon would be there;

The bad.clams were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Sauvignon danced in their heads;
And Fly at her keyboard, and Teem in his flat,
Had just settled down for a long #alt.bad.clams chat,

Then out on yon Dalnet there arose such a chatter,
I sprang to the screen to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew with a /ping,
And waited three minutes for nary a thing.

The lines on the screen of the chat client window
Gave lie to the lag that plagues us clams so,
When, what to my wondering shell should I see,
But a backwards nickname, and a raucous "Howdee",

With a lively old patter, so drunken and rank,
I knew in a moment it must be Doc Frank.
More rapid than ISDN his postings they came,
And he typed like a madman and called them by name;

"Now, Evelyn! now, Clamlord! 688 and Maggs!
On, Clurker! Clamm'rina! Clamlipsis 'n JoeSlag!
To the heck with the menus, just give it your all,
Now type away! type away! type away all!"

As mere clothes that hug the beauteous Clamfly,
When they meet with a clamchat, descend from her thigh,
So up to the channel the postings they flew,
With the list full of clams, and Doc Frankenclam, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I saw without spam
The ribbings and jestings of each little clam.
As I gathered my mouse, and was laughing out loud,
Right through the screen Doc Frankenclam bounded all proud!

He was dressed up in seaweed, from siphon to foot,
And his shell was all tarnished with barnacles and loot,
A bundle of pearls he had flung 'cross his mantle,
And he looked like a wino just opened some Ripple.

His eyes -- how they glazed! his dimples how scary!
His breath reeked of wine, his nose shone like a berry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a leer,
And the beard on his shell was matted and sere;

The stump of a kelp pipe held tight in his shell,
And the smoke it encircled him, oh, what a smell!;
He had a broad visage and a little round siphon,
That shook when he laughed like a miniature python.

He was musseled and stout, a right studly old clam,
And I swooned when I saw him, for I am a bad.clam;
The curl of his lip and the thrust of his pelvis,
Soon gave me to know: He thought he was Elvis!;

He paused not a jot, and then fed me his line,
Catalogued my organs; and drank all my wine,
Then staggering along, in spite of himself,
He stepped the wrong way, right off the continental shelf;

I sprang to the keyboard, to the clams gave a shout,
And they laughed 'til they cried at the grisly old lout.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he fell out of sight,
"Happy ClamChat to all, and to All a Clam Night!"


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Short Title: AltBaldspot

From: cehvron (chevy@yahoo.com)
Subject: 'Twas the night before Christmas... 
Newsgroups: alt.baldspot
Date: 2002-12-24 22:50:20 PST 
 
Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Dr. Primeau was stirring, he had murdered his spouse.
Her body was hung by the chimney with care,
St. Petersburg police department would soon find her there.

She found pictures of children all snug in their beds,
On Ernie's computer, his internet threads.
Little girls in 'kerchiefs, and boys in a cap,
She found them while surfing the web for gift wrap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
It was Ernie, wielding a bat like a senior Mad Hatter.
Away to the window she flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, called Ernie white trash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the Primeau's trailer a terrifying glow.
She locked all the doors and thought she could hide,
The room was all dark, so she sat and she cried.

When, what to her horrified eyes should appear,
But Homernie behind her, he came up the rear.
With a noose in one hand, so lively and quick,
She knew in a moment it wasn't St. Nick.

Ernie was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
Not a single stray hair did he have on his back,
He had plucked every one, even the those on his sack.

The wart on his forehead stood mighty and bold,
He had a dozen hairs on his head, his skin wrinkly and old.
He smelled of lotions and saw palmetto,
His legs freshly shaved with a dull stiletto.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Mrs. Primeau knew she soon would end up dead.
He spoke not a word, but just hummed as he worked,
He made it look like suicide, Homernie just smirked.

Ernie started the car and let the engine roar,
He glanced at Homernie, his loyal man-whore.
And I heard him exclaim, as they drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."


Happy Holidays to everyone, Dr. Primeau and Homernie too.


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Last Modified January 7, 2007