THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
by Clement Clarke Moore, sort of.
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all round the MOAT
Not a bloglit was stirring, and nobody spoke.
The spammers were hung by the chimney with no care,
In hopes that their souls, Lord God would not spare.
The bloggers were nestled right next to their ‘puters,
Dreaming visions of “Firsting” and knocking back shooters;
And Punky in her 'kerchief, and C-Bol in a cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap.
When out on the blog something landed with a splatter,
I sprang to the keyboard to see what was the matter.
With a click of the mouse, followed by jabbing F5,
I zipped cross the ether to see what had arrived.
As electrons wizzed round, and the screen slowly filled,
I waiting impatiently, and popped No-Doze pills,
And finally emerging from the screen’s little dots,
Emerged a large vat of gin, and eight drunken sots,
With a little old blogger, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be a trick.
For right in the middle of a nude Twister game,
He whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now Joshkr! Now SlyEyes! Now Rita and Mad!
On Leetie! On Fisher! On Mudstuffin and Lab!
To the top of the vat! To top off your jug!
Now drink away! Drink away! Drink away…*thud*!"
And with ripping of clothing, the lot jumped in the MOAT,
To float there resplendent, swapping stories of goats;
As the rest of the bloggers arrived on the scene,
The party got larger, and quickly obscene.
With tales about ramparts, brown beavers and willies,
The innuendo got thicker, ‘til things just got silly.
But this seemed to worry the hoard not a lot,
And I took my place with them, near the vat’s open top,
Loading quarters like mad into the jukebox’s slot.
With the music at 10, and booze flowing fast,
The dancing got started and couples flew past.
Then Judi showed up with a fire-fighting stray,
Making blogettes go wild, til they found he was gay.
As wilder and wilder the party then grew
Comments flashing and crossing – the ball really flew!
Double-posts were soon tripling, and increasing in heat;
The spelling got scary, and the grammar not neat.
The lurkers all laughing, though they showed not their face,
While refreshing their screens at a quickening pace,
‘Til the Internet sagged under the furious load,
And meltdown approached and responses then slowed.
Oh Gawd! They all cried, Quick! Start a new MOAT!
And off they all went, like a rat up a rope.
Its been like this now for weeks upon weeks.
And as exhaustion draws near, their beds they all seek.
For the blogging is hard, and the link coding tricky,
And the palms of your hands can often get sticky.
As the party winds down, and loses its pace,
The diehards remaining put on a brave face.
For its surely not easy to be left on your own,
Wide awake and left tapping alone in your home.
But the last one departing, ere they drop out of sight, cries:
"Happy Christmas to all, and *burp* ROO! ROO! tonight."
Posted by: wysiwyg on November 29, 2004 03:21 AM
by Clement Clarke Moore, sort of.
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all round the MOAT
Not a bloglit was stirring, and nobody spoke.
The spammers were hung by the chimney with no care,
In hopes that their souls, Lord God would not spare.
The bloggers were nestled right next to their ‘puters,
Dreaming visions of “Firsting” and knocking back shooters;
And Punky in her 'kerchief, and C-Bol in a cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap.
When out on the blog something landed with a splatter,
I sprang to the keyboard to see what was the matter.
With a click of the mouse, followed by jabbing F5,
I zipped cross the ether to see what had arrived.
As electrons wizzed round, and the screen slowly filled,
I waiting impatiently, and popped No-Doze pills,
And finally emerging from the screen’s little dots,
Emerged a large vat of gin, and eight drunken sots,
With a little old blogger, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be a trick.
For right in the middle of a nude Twister game,
He whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now Joshkr! Now SlyEyes! Now Rita and Mad!
On Leetie! On Fisher! On Mudstuffin and Lab!
To the top of the vat! To top off your jug!
Now drink away! Drink away! Drink away…*thud*!"
And with ripping of clothing, the lot jumped in the MOAT,
To float there resplendent, swapping stories of goats;
As the rest of the bloggers arrived on the scene,
The party got larger, and quickly obscene.
With tales about ramparts, brown beavers and willies,
The innuendo got thicker, ‘til things just got silly.
But this seemed to worry the hoard not a lot,
And I took my place with them, near the vat’s open top,
Loading quarters like mad into the jukebox’s slot.
With the music at 10, and booze flowing fast,
The dancing got started and couples flew past.
Then Judi showed up with a fire-fighting stray,
Making blogettes go wild, til they found he was gay.
As wilder and wilder the party then grew
Comments flashing and crossing – the ball really flew!
Double-posts were soon tripling, and increasing in heat;
The spelling got scary, and the grammar not neat.
The lurkers all laughing, though they showed not their face,
While refreshing their screens at a quickening pace,
‘Til the Internet sagged under the furious load,
And meltdown approached and responses then slowed.
Oh Gawd! They all cried, Quick! Start a new MOAT!
And off they all went, like a rat up a rope.
Its been like this now for weeks upon weeks.
And as exhaustion draws near, their beds they all seek.
For the blogging is hard, and the link coding tricky,
And the palms of your hands can often get sticky.
As the party winds down, and loses its pace,
The diehards remaining put on a brave face.
For its surely not easy to be left on your own,
Wide awake and left tapping alone in your home.
But the last one departing, ere they drop out of sight, cries:
"Happy Christmas to all, and *burp* ROO! ROO! tonight."
Posted by: wysiwyg on November 29, 2004 03:21 AM
