On the last day of Christmas,
Effie held a solitary Festivus
& aired her marital grievances:
Her hubby worked one day out of the year
& not only got plenty of free press,
but the marketplace was flooded
with his graven image
& the very idea of him
garnered even more impersonators
She was tired of him taking credit
for all the toys the rich gave their kids
& all the !@#$ he got from the poor kids
whose parents couldn’t afford anything
but socks, candy canes,
& random crap from CVS.
When she left his fat ass,
she experienced a little #MeToo movement of her own,
changing her name to Ms. Claws
(now free of Santa’s meaty paws).
When Santa became weary of his dead-end job,
having degraded into a fat squab,
he used his B&E experience to become a jewel thief,
which was a source of great relief,
until he was caught & made deader than a doorknob.
Rudolph had yearned for the opportunity
to participate in reindeer games,
with visions of playing with the nice list children
who tossed rings at his antlers
& frolicking in the forest green,
but when he was finally accepted,
he found out that his red nose
had suddenly been fetishized
in this all-boys club,
got more than he bargained for.
To: kconner, cmiller, wspencer, ccarnes, csimon, gjorgensen
Subject: Welcome back!
Though we may have entered a newer normal, I am certainly feeling the synergy.
Karen, regarding Project Blue Ball, let’s take this offline. Use this opportunity to knock this low-hanging fruit out of the way and circle back when we reconvene.
These are unprecedented times, but let’s take a deep dive, reach out, and stand in solidarity with our community to create a more inclusive (and less reclusive) environment.
Connor and Wyatt, I know you said you don’t have the bandwidth right now, but let’s put more thought into finding a thought leader to speak at the next “See and Say” meeting, which will be a real game-changer.
Chad and Carly, our newest change agents—just keep giving it 150% and taking it to the next level. You’ve brought some much-needed blue-sky thinking to the company.
And last but certainly not least, to our intern Gunnar, thanks for taking ownership and spinning your wheelhouse. Squeak, squeak!
At the end of the day, I think we’re all singing from the same hymnsheet. Let’s just keep pivoting and thinking outside the box.
In the valley of the dollhouses
there lay the site of the Calico Critters’ Lumberjack Festival.
When the Hopscotch Bunnies decided to participate
alongside the Eager Beavers
rather than fell trees,
they were needed on the roofs
to get better reception.
When 10:10 met 8:20,
an annoying, perky sort,
told 8:20 to turn his clock face frown
taking his advice,
cleaned 10:10’s clock
with his longer hand,
so that it took a minute
rather than an hour,
making 8:20 feel like an a.m.
rather than a p.m.
Mr. Gherkin always found himself in a pickle,
Miss Cherry, a jam,
but these 2 accident-prone soul-mates—
1 sweet, 1 sour—
had never met until they were joined
in sandwich-style matrimony
by the pregnant bridezilla.
Mary Katherine McFeeney
of Washingham High School,
Class of 1988,
had been a “Who’s Who?” in her heyday,
but Hellen Devlin,
the girl who’d watched M.K.
since their freshman year—
becoming an unofficial M.K.M. scholar
& penning the M.K.M. Fictionary—
had wondered why & how
“the girl most likely
to spread more than good cheer”
had ever achieved such acclaim,
for M.K. had never known what was what
who was on first . . .
& second . . .
giving the word “Homecoming”
a whole ‘nother meaning.
Born a “Children of the Damned” blond,
The Girl grew up believing
that she became invisible
whenever she closed her eyes—
only to realize that with invisibility
but as she grew & her hair darkened,
she actually got brighter,
that is, until she became nostalgic
for her happy-go-bumpy childhood,
& she reverted to the bottle,
lamenting the dark roots
that were just a branch
of the Black Irish part
of her family tree.
He had a face for radio,
she, a voice for print journalism.
They were only 10’s,
if they were added together,
so they married not up
but equal to one another—
with her writing what he said
& him saying what she wrote,
they lived fair-to-middlin’ ever after.
When Sticky Fingers Sal & Pickpocket Pearl
were strolling out of Curl Up & Dye,
Sal, distracted by a Grammar Nazi on strike,
slipped & fell into a plot hole.
Pearl, always quick with her hands,
reached into the man’s pocket
& stole the ultimate weapon—
his dangling modifier.
She held it down for Sal who,
even after her rescue,
just wouldn’t let go of it.
He was a tautogram,
she, an anagram.
They were socially-awkward individuals,
for he got his tongue all twisted,
just as she was all mixed up.
He was White Wine,
chilled to perfection;
she was Red Wine,
perfect as she was.
Then along came
all fancy & bubbly in her flute
& saying to Red & White
that they were mere
lunch & dinner accompaniments,
whereas she was the star
of holidays & weddings.
But then she met Beer,
who was enjoyed out of the tap,
& the can,
& she realized that his fans
would enjoy him
from any vessel.
He was holy water,
when he consumed her,
he was no longer a man of the cloth
but a man without his clothes.
He was the turkey at every Thanksgiving,
she, the ham at every Christmas.
When they decided to cook up something together,
they ended up with a little meatball,
full of spice & spunk.
The parents still reigned supreme, however,
for they could be enjoyed cold as well as hot.
He was nice
(but too nice to other men’s wives);
she was naughty
(but only with her husband).
Neither considered themselves
above the other,
for they were both
on very important lists.
Smiles were free,
but frowns cost double
(meaning they were still free
but not worth the trouble).
To save their rubber chicken wedding,
Mrs. Kentucky Fried—
also known as an angel with wings
with the breasts & thighs to match—
showed a little leg
as she danced back & forth
across the yellowing, crumbling brick road,
having the guests try to figure out why
she was up to such chicken shit.
But the bride found herself in a real sour pickle
when the egg came
before her groom did.