Deck the Columnist Who Wrote This Folly

Yes, once again by popular demand, it’s the annual holiday column, a glorious, uplifting medley of song and cheer reaffirming yours truly as a shameless plagiarist and the worst poet and lyricist on the planet.

The Twelve Days of V-Chip

On the first day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, a pot party in a pear tree.

On the second day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

On the third day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, three French kisses, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

On the fourth day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, four call girls, three French kisses, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, five going at it, four call girls, three French kisses, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

On the sixth day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, six greasers slaying, five going at it, four call girls, three French kisses, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

On the seventh day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, seven sweeties swimming, six greasers slaying, five going at it, four call girls, three French kisses, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

On the eighth day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, eight maids a-mugging, seven sweeties swimming, six greasers slaying, five going at it, four call girls, three French kisses, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

On the ninth day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, nine ladies gyrating, eight maids a-mugging, seven sweeties swimming, six greasers slaying, five going at it, four call girls, three French kisses, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

On the 10th day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, 10 lords a-cursing, nine ladies gyrating, eight maids a-mugging, seven sweeties swimming, six greasers slaying, five going at it, four call girls, three French kisses, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

On the 11th day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, 11 pipers pimping, 10 lords a-cursing, nine ladies gyrating, eight maids a-mugging, seven sweeties swimming, six greasers slaying, five going at it, four call girls, three French kisses, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

On the 12th day of V-chip, my TV blocked from me, 12 drummers doing it, 11 pipers pimping, 10 lords a-cursing, nine ladies gyrating, eight maids a-mugging, seven sweeties swimming, six greasers slaying, five going at it, four call girls, three French kisses, two lovey-doves and a pot party in a pear tree.

So I threw the damned set out.

Talk Nuts Roasting on an Open Fire

Talk nuts roasting on an open fire,

Dumb enough to make you doze,

Yappers and Nazis forming the choir,

With folks dressed up in others’ clothes.

Everybody knows these turkeys and their big misdeeds,

Help to make the season’s blight.

And tiny minds with their eyes all a-glow,

Will find it hard to sleep tonight.

They know that Jerry Springer’s on his way;

He’s loaded freaks and psychos on his sleigh,

And every simpleton is gonna spy,

To see if Jenny and Sally, too, can fly.

And so I’m offering this simple phrase,

To their viewers from one to 92.

Although it’s been said many times, many ways;

Get a life, you!

Frosty the Cameraman

Frosty, the cameraman, was a glum, unhappy soul,

With a minicam, cop radio and shooting sleaze his goal.

Frosty, the cameraman, let nothing bar his way,

He shot for bucks, but they all know how he gave it up one day.

There must have been some ethics in that old white head of his,

For when he mulled what he had done, he went and left the biz.

Then Frosty, the cameraman, was alive as he could be,

‘Cause suddenly he could laugh and play, just the same as you and me.

Frosty, the cameraman, refused to shoot more crime,

When offers came, he turned them down and said, “Not one more time.”

Frosty, the cameraman, wouldn’t shoot even the stars,

Before pestering them, he said, “I’d sooner be on Mars.”

Then one day when bills piled up and Frosty had no dough,

He thought about his hunger pangs, and knew the way to go.

Frosty, the cameraman, is a jolly, happy soul,

With a minicam, cop radio and sleaze again his goal.

Hark the Herald Angels Attack

Hark! The herald angels attack!

Savage angels at your back.

Peace on earth, but not TV,

Gore, not God, our strategy.

Fearful, all ye viewers rise,

See the shows we advertise.

Sweeping down without a trace,

This halo corps, in your face!

Blood, by TV moguls adored,

Blood, the everlasting lord.

At any time, behold they come,

Their whacking wings, and then some.

Through veiled goodness, evil see,

Hail the small screen’s deity.

Hosts proclaim, no quarter shown,

“When Angels Attack!” Bad to the bone.