nce upon a time,
in the kingdom of Winter,
a magical donkey
got a magical splinter.
A magical kangaroo rat
pulled it from his magical toe,
all in a magical way
now, don’tcha know.
The magical donkey
heaved a magical sigh,
until a magical crow hopped up
and pecked out his eye.
And though he was sad
the donkey couldn’t cry,
because his magical tear duct
was stuck to his magical eye.

Oh, wait. That’s a terrible story. Sorry. Let’s try another:

The true story of Christmas is one few people know,
They think it’s about reindeer and stockings and snow.
But this is all hoohash, it just isn’t so,
Use it as fertilizer and it’ll make things grow.
The real story starts way deep in a cave,
Where quiet as a tomb and dark as a grave
The tooth fairy leaves teeth in a very big pile,
And deep in that pile a goat sleeps for a while.
He rests the year round except for one night
When he climbs to a mountain top in the moonlight,
Where he sits for a moment and begins to think,
Then whispers to tell the stars how fast to blink.
It’s a good job, but up there the wind never stops.
It will chap you good, both your bottoms and tops.
And because of this… I don’t mean to sound crass,
But that’s how he got his name: Mr. Rosey Red-Ass.

And one fateful year, Rosey awoke rather early,
Which is best to avoid as he’s known to be surly
And ornery and grouchy and his eyes have a glaze
When he’s slept any less than 364 days.
But this year he woke up and didn’t know what to do
When he’d slept in just barely one hundred and two.
He crept from the cave into the unfamiliar daylight,
Which was offensively orange and unreasonably bright,
To find a world all wrapped up in chaos and strife
Which he’d napped, snored and slept through for all of his life.

The people were all arguing and fighting and bickering.
The trees were all hickoring and the mice were all dickoring.
The yodelers were arguing from mountain top to mountain top,
So Rosey decided that he must make them stop.
He set off on a journey to find the solution
For anger and strife and cosmic pollution.
And along the way, of course, he made friends. In a shed
He met Sparkey the Reanimated Gopher Head.
And Tommy the Pickle, he met in a park.
And Genius Gene, who was lost in the dark.
The group carried on in a merry caravan,
United as one under Rosey’s fine plan.
Except for young Tommy, who thought it a dream,
And Gene, who thought they were going for ice cream.

Down in the valley at the edge of the trees,
Past the meadow of ants and the lake full of bees
The group found a strange and unusual bog.
A one-of-a-kind, a bog made of nog.
Rosey got an idea, and his pulse began to quicken
As he conviced Gene that he was actually a chicken.
And Gene had no reason to believe he was not,
So he laid a half-dozen eggs right there on the spot.

Rosey Red-Ass tossed the eggs in the bog
Along with a log and two-thirds of a frog.
And before they knew it, that bog of nog
Was now officially a bog of eggnog.
Word of this spread quickly and soon everyone
Came to drink the eggnog and have buckets of fun,
Which made them all merry and put them in a good mood,
Even Simon the Rude, who was then not so rude.
And people brought cheese logs and other odd food,
And then came the presents and someone got nude
On the copying machine, and not thinking it crass
They then passed out copies of their rosy red ass.

So this, silly children, is how Christmas came to be.
If you don’t believe it, ask anyone. Ask me.