Skulls in the Stars

The Gun-Fight Before Christmas

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Been busy at work and struggling to finish new science posts for the blog.  In the meantime, here’s some silliness that I did on twitter.

So what does Christmas mean to you? Birth of the savior?  A day to strive for peace and love on earth?  A time to spend with one’s family and loved ones?

Well, you’re all wrong.

According to elected official Michele Fiore (R-psychopath), the holidays are a good time to show off how much your family, from venerable Lil to little Jake, are in love with murder weapons!  This is the actual 2015 family Christmas card:

Nice how they give a list of the weapons on display, in case the birth of the Prince of Peace inspires you to shop for some implements of death yourself!

Well, this appalling absurdity — I can’t think of anything less Christmas-y that doesn’t end with a “-cide” suffix — inspired me on twitter to pen an appropriate Christmas carol for this sad family.  I was originally writing it on the fly while in the car at night with the wife heading to an event, and wanted to touch it up a little past the Storify I did right after.  Also, I figured some of my blog readers may not have seen it on twitter.

Without further ado, I present…

The Gun-Fight Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, every person was packing, even the spouse.

The ammo was stacked near the chimney with care, in case a godless commie gave us a scare.

The children were cowering, afraid in their beds, as my stories of Al Qaeda stalked through their heads.

And I in my bandolier, and my wife in her vest, had just settled in for a long winter’s rest.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I immediately opened fire, without thinking through the matter.

Away to the window I threw a flash bang, it blew off the shutters and my ears oh they rang.

The moon, shining through the haze of the blast, to the air it gave a sinister cast.

When what, in my wandering scope did appear, but a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver so lively and amiss, I knew in a moment he must be ISIS.

More rapid than SCUD missiles his coursers they came, and he whistled all Muslimy and called them by name.

‘Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen-‘ At that point I fired, so terrorists don’t win.

Aim at the top of the porch, at the top of the wall, now fire away, fire away, fire away, all!

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, I was sure I had blown away that sled-riding guy.

But no — to the housetop, the coursers they flew, with a sleigh full of danger, and that communist, too.

And then, with a burst, I shot through the roof, aiming for the pawing of each little hoof.

As I reloaded my rifle, and was turning around, down the chimney the gun grabber came with a bound.

He was dressed in all fur, admittedly quite sheen, I nearly asked if he hunts with an AR-15.

A bundle of threats he had flung on his back, and he looked like a burglar right about to attack.

His eyes — they looked foreign! His skin — not white! He was not an American, so I got ready to fight.

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, so I gave him a burst to get him to go.

The stump of his pipe I shot right out of his teeth, and the smoke from the discharge circled his head like a wreath.

He ducked his broad head, so I aimed at his belly, but the bullets bounced off like marshmallows off jelly.

He advanced on me then, no pretense of stealth, and I wet my pants; couldn’t help myself.

A wink of his eye, and a stern middle finger, let me know that he had no intention to linger.

He spoke not at first, but went straight to his work; filled stockings with coal, then called me a jerk.

One more middle finger, and the phrase, ‘Get bent,’ and then up and up the chimney he went.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew, dodging my last missile.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, ‘You gun nuts are awful — AND YOU SUCK IN A FIGHT.’

FIN

… anyone want to illustrate it?

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