Twas the week before Christmas, and all through our house,
Not a brain cell was stirring, I felt like a louse.
The movies were calling, though shit was the fare,
“Four Christmases!” I shouted, let’s go, if we dare.
The Dodge Ram was nestled, all snug in its shed,
While visions of Shithouse danced in my head.
And mama in her pea coat, and I in my cap,
Were off on our way, for some cheap holiday crap.
When there on the screen arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my seat, my heart pitter-patter.
I roared like a lion; such madness, such trash,
I tore at my hair, my wrists I did slash.
The bullshit before me, my anger did grow,
I turned to my wife, “Fuck,” I cried, “No!”
When, what to my incredulous eyes should appear,
But a pro-family wasteland; babies, good cheer.
A message so vile, so awful, so sick,
I knew in an instant, this director’s a prick.
More nasty than Limbaugh, his cause to defame,
No children, no soul, we all were the same!
“Now free birds! Now rebels! From Mason to Dixon,
Get married, settle down, there’s cribs to be fixin’.
You’re selfish and evil, so death be to all,
Who spurn hearth and home, and ignore heaven’s call!”
Witherspoon, Vaughn, dared take to the sky,
Lord Jesus brought fog, now no one could fly.
So instead of warm Fiji, with waters so blue,
They’d visit their parents, roll eyes, but make do.
And then, in a twinkling, Kate’s rage went a-poof,
She holds a dear child, while Brad’s on the roof.
Its cries turn to laughter, it flips Kate around,
Down comes her guard, her purpose is found!
Til now she’d been empty, all that now kaput,
She wanted a husband, many babies afoot.
But Brad loved their lifestyle, it all seemed on track,
Vacations and free time, wild times in the sack.
“Look at our families,” he cried, “So sad, not at all merry,
They fight and they scrape, you see why I’m wary.
And look at us now, we’re rolling in dough,
Great jobs and such freedom, they envy us so!”
With that I got sick, began grinding my teeth,
I knew what was coming, what was lurking beneath.
Like a cult attracts the lonely, as p.b. needs jelly,
The childless are doomed, like a pre-teen with R. Kelly.
The film had turned somber, despite the tits on that elf,
Who caught my attention, in spite of myself.
4’11” in real life, or so it is said,
The only bright spot, in a film filled with dread.
Nice breasts aside, the film didn’t work,
Except as a think-piece, for conservative jerks.
Women must breed, til they dry up I suppose,
Shared fun is appalling, as everyone knows.
So I leapt from my seat, and gave out a whistle,
My rage had the focus, of a Tomahawk missile.
The lie again stated, as the film went out of sight,
“This world is for parents, as the day follows night.”