Twas the Night Before Christmas… at the Gallagher House

As a little Christmas treat and at the request of Dee—so shut up, Dee—I am including this Christmas recitation from Joe Gallagher Sr, the father of Maggie Gallagher, heroine of CRY UNCLE. Yes, it’s a teaser.

As a Gallagher family tradition, Joe sits down with the kids every year and recites his version of TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, also known as A Visit from Saint Nicholas, usually attributed to Clement Clarke Moore. It changes each year and the degree of outrage fluctuates.

Here ya go… take it away, Joe.

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS AT THE GALLAGHER HOUSE

Twas the night before Christmas in the Gallagher house.
Not a critter was st--

Ok, look-- you little bastards need to sit the hell
down and shut up or I'm not reciting SHIT. Where was
I? What? Oh. Right.

Not a critter was doing shit, not even a mouse.
They had stockings hung up stuck with glitter and glue.
Just ready to be filled up by old you-know-who.
The rugrats were duct taped into their beds--
And if any of them peeked they knew we'd smack their heads.
I was in my sleeping sweats and Nana was in her mumu.
The house was stuffed with visitors, we had no more room-oo.

Like there was no room-oo for baby Jesus at the inn,
right? Right. So you little shits should be damned
grateful. When I was your age-- what? WHAT? Oh, all
right, where the hell was I?

When what did my eyes spy out in our yard
But a velvet-suit-wearing freaky old tub o lard!
No shit, with a sleigh and a mess of reindeer--
It was really too bad, hunting season was near,
One more week and hooo-eeee there'd be jingle hell to pay!

What? Oh for Chrissakes. I'm not promoting guns, you
crispy pain in the a-- OH ALL RIGHT!

Yeah... hell to pay... annnnnd...
Anyway, the deer were all fine with the bells and the sleigh.
Now I lost my place... Santa... Christmas... right.
The red-velvet tubbo was prowling the night.
You don't see a fat old man in red with white tassels
Unless he's in a gay bar getting some hassles--

OH FOR CHRISSAKES THE KIDS ARE FINE. It's a joke.
Jesus. You ruin everything. Come back here and sit down.
Tell your mother to stop wrecking Christmas. Now everybody
shut the hell up.

So yeah... he jumped to the chimney with all of his shit
But he'd let himself go and his ass wouldn't fit.
So me being a good guy, I yelled out to Kringle
"Would you knock that shit off, you'll loosen the shingles.
Get your ass off my roof and use the front door
For Chrissakes, you jackass, isn't that what it's for?"
And he climbed down with grunts and groans, and his big sack
And when he bent over I could see he had a big crack.
I think Santa, who-- it seems to me-- couldn't be dumber
Spends the other eleven months of the year as a plumber.

OH MOTHER OF GAWD-- they're fine. They're FINE. They
won't melt or need therapy, for Chrissakes, it's a
poem-- a damned traditional poem. Get away from me.
Tell your father you're fine and to get the hell away
from Grampa. For Chrissakes...

Right. Anyway, here was Santa the old red-nosed bastard
I think he'd been hitting the Christmas punch and was plastered
But I do not judge. Anyway, he was merry.
And joyful and shit. And some shit that rhymes with berry.
Anyway-- he wanted to know what you little shits wanted.
Poor Santa, his face was sad-- his eyes kinda haunted.
See-- Santa?-- he's working with ELVES, kids-- in a shop.
And the elf union called for a full-out work stop.
Santa's at the North Pole, not Japan for Chrissake.
He doesn't have the stuff that kids want him to make.
When Santa started out everyone wanted trains--
Or dolls... or blocks-- now everyone complains.
"I want an X box or an Ipoop or a gadget."
Elves can't make that shit-- and poor Santa has had it!
Ungrateful brats-- lemme tell you something, skippy--
You're breaking the heart of that old, fat elf-hippie.
He can't do it. He's an old man. He's got an elf issue.
And unions and shit you can't wrap up in tissue,
Or tie up with ribbons, or stick under the tree.
Little bastards these days want the whole world for free.
So I felt bad. Yeah, I felt Santa's pain, the old coot.
So I got him a beer and helped sort the loot.
Yeah, you know-- now I think about it, he really was lit.
He was staggering a little, the crispy old shit.
So he made for his sleigh-- blew the Gallagher joint.
He had a whole world of other brats to disappoint.
But I heard him exclaim as he flew round the bend-o
"Merry Christmas, you little assholes-- go play your Nintendo!"

Now go to bed.