Happy Generic Day
 

Remember that the "C-word"
is something we should shun;
and don't forget the "New Year"
isn't new to everyone.

And so in every card I write
(I think it rather clever):
a very merry you-know-what,
and a good whatever.

Kids, I can remember when every little tyke
was happy with a train set, a baby doll, a bike.
But these days it's an iPad, an X-Box, a PC.
My costs have risen off the charts. What do you want of me?
The elves are out on strike. Though I've done the best I can,
they're overworked and underpaid, and need a health care plan.
Besides, I'm no spring chicken. I'm nowhere near as spry
as I was at five hundred. So children, that is why
I'm planning to retire. I've had about enough.
“Hey!” I hear you crying out, “What about our stuff?”
Frankly, my dear kiddies, I just don't give a toss.
And so I'm off to Florida. Sincerely, Santa Claus.

the true meaning....
 

Take out the office parties,
the carols sung off key,
take out the spicy egg nog,
the reruns on TV,

take out the savoury pudding,
the turkeys, geese or chickens,
take out Zusu’s flower,
for God’s sake, take out Dickens,

take out the decorations,
take out the bloody tree;
but keep the “Gift” in “Giftmas”—
that's good enough for me.


I am so getting in touch with my inner Scrooge.:mad:

maybe next year we'll try a theme party....
 

Dad says “What’d you expect--
A tie or a sweater?”
Mom says "Cheer up,
They don't know any better.
After all, they’re just human.”
Well, duh! So am I.
And I feel more left out
with each year that goes by.
They give gifts to each other,
and forget about me.
Ah, well. Note to self:
“Happy birthday, JC!”

For your listening pleasure:

Tom Lehrer's Christmas Carol

Tum-ta-tum-ta-tum-parum-pum-pum-pum

December’s here and hear the thrum
that crummy kid creates; the dumb
and droning, moaning hum of hum-
bug fills a mall with every strum,
just like a film of sugar scum.
It cloaks and gums the shopping slum,
where Santa’s just a dressed-up bum,
until I think my mind is numb.

But, hey, these complementary rum-
laced egg-nogs go down well; and come
to think on it, why be so glum
when everything here tastes so yum?
More doubles please, Miss Sugar Plum –
parum pum pum pum – one’s for my chum.
Him and his drum.

They seized the airwaves in November,
announcing that the day was near,
and now it’s harder to remember
the sort of news we used to hear.

Their propaganda’s trite and hearty:
they want us all to sing the song;
they want us all to join the party;
enlist our children; play along.

Each year’s stakhanovite campaign
to wrap an ever-tarnished present
seems lengthier and more inane,
yet we pretend it’s bright and pleasant.

The tidings swell and then reprise,
to set us getting, spending more,
we feel beleaguered—quel surprise—
it’s holiday cum psy-ops war.

Frank

Christmas is the middle of an isthmus
linking old and new.

Twelve days feeling bored, depressed and listless,
yet after they are through,

I feel I can return again to business
believing once again what is not true.

A pox on the Christmas spirit
and Humbug to Seasonal Cheer
that lasts for a week in December
and ends with the bells of New Year.

Then pine needles clog up the hoover
and problems pile up by the yard.
Good wishes are, sadly, just transient things --
whatever it says on the card.