In light of recent events, I thought it time to update the classic Christmas poem, "The Night Before Christmas," to more accurately reflect the zeitgeist.
‘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.