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8 Comments:
My God, it's so true!
This do be the crux o' th' American dilemma, see?
Thar oughtta be er third column, mate, which do be Nefarious! (involves plunderin! 'a course!)
Eliminate long lines at the checkout wit yer cutlass, and mebbe give some swag to the Salvation on de way out!
An' if that Santa do be nosin' roun' yer hideout, give 'im the grapeshot and have venison stew!
Ho ho ho and a bottle 'a rum, I always sez.
I'm not very nice. I mean, I give to charities and universities, and to kids supporting their schools. I even donate to hospice and toys for tots. But the homeless scare me, so I never give them anything. When they ask me for money, I say 'No thank you' and walk away. Unless it's very cold outside, sometimes I buy them coffee. If that makes me naughty, then that appellation's mine, and I'm proud.
i'm somewhere in between nice and naughty. i hope Santa doesn't skip my house!
Doug, I am so inspired by this cartoon, I wrote this poem (just now) for you!
'twas the eve before Xmas,
and all through the coop,
not a chicken was stirring,
not even to poop.
When suddenly came a noise from outside,
"Come on kids, get ready to ride!"
'twas the farmer, loudly shouting away,
"Dagnabbit, get out of that hay!"
"We're going to the Johnsons for drinks,
and fried steak, and maybe Hi-Jinks.
So move your butts, and get into the car."
Which they did, and drove off afar.
Sweet silence settled all about the farm,
the chickens sounded no alarm.
And they dreamed dreams of cutting down lumber,
until "Ho! Ho! Ho!" disturbed their slumber.
"It's that bloke who sells whores, ham, and bacon!"
said the chickens, now awakened,
As if to confirm their knowing surmise,
came: "Free ribs for going upsize!"
"How can we sleep with this hullabaloo?"
Grumbled the chickens, "This won't do!"
"We must rid ourselves of this noisy pimp man."
So they plotted, and hatched a plan.
Out in the yard stood the pimp and his wares:
sausage, prime rib, midgets with stairs,
ham and bacon, and girls without knickers,
shoulder, leg, and naughty vicars.
When from behind the red barn there did come,
such a noise the pimp pooed his bum.
And up came the chickens in flying machines,
Invented that night so it seems.
His whores and midgets and vicars were slayed.
The pimp, his future life he weighed,
as chickens blasted his wares to pieces.
"Now how will I pay my nieces?"
"Oh woe is me, for my life is over.
That's it! I'm going to Dover."
The chickens cheered as they chased him away,
and returned to snooze in the hay.
And far above, flying in the night sky,
old Santa happening to spy,
the chaos below, cried "What the Dickens?
What fun! Goodnight Savage Chickens!"
Doug,
You totally crack me up!
Ho,Ho,Ho! Merry Christmas!
This sounds so much like some people I know...
charybdis4000@yahoo.com
Wow! Nice work, Silarnon!
Reminds me that I really should have a chicken poetry contest one of these days!
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