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'twas the night before Christmas
And all through the lines,
Were the usual moanings,
Grumbles and whines.
"Where is my luggage!?"
"When is my flight!?"
These cries rang out louder
Than most other nights.
And me in my white shirt,
And TSA shield,
I surveyed the scene
Like a dense battlefield.
When all of the sudden
There arose such a clamor,
That I said, "What be that?"
Forgetting my grammar.
Way back in the line
Of the passengers waiting
Was a fat man in red,
What a scene he's creating.
In front of each passenger
This man kept on butting,
And as he did each of them
Yelled out, "No cutting!"
He made his way forward,
And cried out "I'm late!
My flight is just boarding.
Away to my gate!"
"This year I've no reindeer,
For years they've worked hard.
So I set them all free,
They're back home in the yard."
"But the good little children
Must not be let down.
So I'm flying commercial,
Stopping off at each town."
His rosy red cheeks
Made him look like a specter,
As he shoved his way past,
Towards the metal detector.
"Hold on there," I said.
"This isn't a cruise.
Now take off your belt,
And your jacket and shoes."
"Take out your laptop,
Your cell phone, your change.
And take off that hat
Just because it looks strange."
"Now lift up that bag,
Assuming you're able,
And put it right on
This conveyer belt table."
"Leave out your ticket
And photo ID.
The green light is on,
Now please walk towards me."
And as the man passed
(Though he barely could fit)
The siren went off,
And he started a bit.
"Please step over here
Before you depart.
Arms stuck out straight,
Feet spread apart."
"Look, I'm Santa Clause, dammit,
Can't you let me go through?"
I said, "That's profiling,
And THAT we don't do."
Then I ran my detector wand
Over his gut,
Under each foot
And around his big butt.
While my co-workers pawed
Through his red velvet sack,
My wand it went "beep"
In the small of his back.
I said, "Grab your ankles,"
As I gave him a shove.
And his pants hit the floor
As I snapped on my glove.
With a poke and a prod,
And a hearty gyrate,
I said, "Hey! What's this!?"
He replied, "My prostate."
For a solid 10 minutes
I searched and I probed,
While the fat bastard stood there,
Halfway disrobed.
"You're clean," I announced,
But he didn't respond.
Then I peeled off my glove
And examined my wand.
"Damn thing must be broken!
Ah well, no harm done.
If I don't probe your colon
Then Osama has won."
But the fat man just stood there,
His jaw had gone slack.
I shrugged and I said,
"Thank The Patriot Act."
"Look here," cried the boys
Who were searching his pack.
"Come see what we found
In his giant red sack!"
"He's got little tin horns
and little toy drums,
rootie-toot-toots
and rum-a-tum tums!"
"Rum-a-tum tums?"
I said with disgust.
"Old man I'm afraid
That this is a bust."
"With the rootie-toot-toots
You might have been fine.
But rum-a-tum tums?
That's crossing the line."
"Allow me to read you
The Homeland dispatches:
No clippers, no knitters!
No four packs of matches!"
"No ski poles, no pool cues!
Not one baseball bat!
No shoe bombs or box cutters!
(Though you must have known that)."
"And rum-a-tum tums
Are on top of the list.
Now please come with us,
And don't try to resist."
And I heard the man mutter,
As we dragged him away:
"Screw Rudolph, next year
It's back to the sleigh."
Irrelativity is © 2008 by Barry Smith. All rights reserved. No commercial use may be made of the material without prior arrangements with the author. And so on and so forth. If you want to put one of my columns on your web page, or include it in your employee newsletter, or use parts of it in your speech before the U.N., it would be so cool and considerate if you would email me about such things beforehand so we could discuss it.
“NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS”
Barry Smith’s “IRRELATIVITY” appears weekly in the Aspen Times.
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