The Night Before Trumpmas: A Christmas Poem

The Night Before Trumpmas: A Christmas Poem

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays from all of us at Reverb Press!

Everyone knows the Night Before Christmas poem. It’s been a standard for Children in America for closer to two centuries than one. But if there’s one thing I love to do, it’s being a Grinch and turning your love of holiday cheer into an onslaught of really terrible puns. So here’s my gift to you, Reverb readers. I hope you like it, I hope you have a happy and safe holiday, and I hope all of your gifts are YUUUGE!

The Night Before Trumpmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the skyrise, Not a toupee was unkempt for his hair guy to stylize. The Donald was watching his polling in his lair, and tweeting “Muslims will kill all of us, and what Hillary said wasn’t fair!” His imported trophy wife slept snug in their bed, while visions of being married to literally any other person on Earth danced through her head.

So Donald stripped off his orangutan cap, and laid his butt down for a long winter’s nap. When up on the helicopter pad there arose such a clatter, that Trump sprang from his bed to see what’s the matter. Away to his gold-plated elevator he ran, and hit the button for the rooftop with his orange-colored hand!

The giant “TRUMP” sign shined brightly and proud, so nowhere in darkness could a terrorist be shroud. When, what to Donald’s wandering eyes should appear, but a giant red sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, with a little old driver so lively and fearsome that Donald knew in an instant that it must be a Muslim!

“What the hell are you doing here, you dumb, ugly demon? Are you hear for my job, my money, my freedom?”

“Easy there killer,” the man said in reply. “My name is Santa, and I’m a friggin’ white guy!”

“Santa?” Donald asked, his mind all a flutter. “What the hell do you want? Are you here for my sexy and super-hot daughter?”

“Gross!” Santa shouted, his stomach in knots. “That’s your daughter you creep, does your brain have blood clots? I’m here to spread Christmas glee and give out free toys, to all of the good little girls and young boys. But my sleigh had some trouble, so on your roof I did land. Can you stop being a smug douchebag and give me a hand?”

The Donald was angry… this “Santa” was crazy. “Free handouts to children who clearly are lazy? This is America! Were you sent by Obama? Get off of my roof before we have us some drama!”

“Relax, you buffoon, I mean you no harm. Please put down that gun. HEY! You just shot me in my arm! We’re going, we’re going! Don’t be such a prick! No wonder you appeal to so many a hick! Come on Rudolph, we’re leaving this place. If America elects this clown it’d be such a disgrace!”

Santa turned and climbed into his sleigh, hoping from this anus-faced douche-nozzle he could escape far away. But the Donald was angry, his temper was flaring. “This is America, I’m pissed and I’m carrying!”

A hail of gunfire rang into the night, waking Melania and Ivanka with such a great fright. They rushed to the window to see what’s the matter, where big gobs of blood had made a huge splatter. Down goes Dasher, and Dancer, and Prancer, and Vixen! There’s Comet, and Cupid, and Donner, and Blitzen! The Donald had killed all of Santa’s reindeer! Oh, how Santa should’ve steered clear!

The Donald had ruined Christmas with his temper and Glock, which he uses to compensate for his small, tiny… brain? Let’s say brain.

The next morning the Donald held a press conference in Iowa, while all the world’s children wept, from Australia to Ottawa. “Yes, I killed Santa, but never you worry,” The Donald explained as the reporters all hurried. “I will replace Christmas with a way better holiday. It’s gonna be YUUUGE, the biggest and best, okay?

“Instead of a tree we will now build a statue, of me, Donald Trump, and my strange fluffy hairdo! We’ll kick out all the brown people, the women, the gays. Except for the hot women… My daughter? She stays. And instead of the socialist gift-giving traditions, we all patrol America with our guns and suspicions! The poor can get jobs and the immigrants can stay out, and Mexico? They’ll pay for it all simply based on my clout!

“And this new holiday I just invented right here will be something our children one day will hold dear. The war on Christmas is over, and I’m changing the name. Is calling it `Trumpmas’ a bit too profane?”

So Donald won his election, and changed all the laws, and after just two news cycles no one remembered Santa Claus. The world had forgotten that Santa was real, and with Trump as our president it was all too surreal. Each holiday season families gather around, while Trump tells us how awesome he is and how much wealth he has found. America’s different, but his fans think it’s great, even if they don’t have a meal on their plate, Because taxes are low and there isn’t a Muslim in sight, so…

Merry Trumpmas to all, and to all a YUUUGE night!

Photo by Bart Fields

ReverbPress Mobile Apps ReverbPress iOS App ReverbPress Android App ReverbPress App

Matt Terzi is a political satirist and essayist from Binghamton, New York, who has written for some of the most prominent satire publications in the country. He’s now moving into more “serious” subject matter, without losing touch with his comedic roots