anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so many floating bells down)1
And how the Smirk hated Anyone, and how he hated pretty How Town! And there were how so many How Towns in Dis-United States of America. It wasn’t fair.
What reason did Anyone have to be merry, for he was poor enough? And what reason did the Smirk have to be sad, for he was rich enough? How rich was he? Well, he was born not only with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he was born also with silver fondue forks and golden oyster knives and ivory-trimmed platinum corkscrews in every orifice of his body, that’s how rich he was.
It was the night before Christmas, and he was deep in the frozen heart of Texas, near Waco, where the Wackos live. It was the state of Dis-Union that believed in revolving credit, and revolving cylinders for guns, and revolving doors for its lethal injection chambers.
It was Christmas Eve, and the FBI surveillance showed that Anyone in How Town was far too happy. The people were joyful and the coloured lights were dancing and even some ecclesiastics were gay. But what really bothered him was the noise.
THE NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! The clink of coins on collection plates, and the ka-ching-a-ching-ing of the cash registers, and the swish of visas on the card swipes. It was all about Christmas, and the Smirk, well, he hated Christmas, 165 days a year, or maybe it was 635 days a year, for the Smirk had no head for numbers.
But the Smirk had a very photogenic head, perfect for Mount Rushmore, and he often pictured it up there, carved in stone, with a magnificently low brow, a granite gaze, and a lip so crooked you could hang a skunk from it.
But the NOISE! Oh the NOISE! For it was the noise of people giving and forgiving, of meeting and greeting, of blessing and redressing. And how he hated that! For the Prez (which was the Smirk’s official title) was the master of taking and raking, of holding and hoarding, of grabbing and of stabbing.
So he ran to his vault and he pawed through his outfits. There was the tall ten-gallon hat, which held 430 litres Canadian, for so had he calculated. There was the cutesy vest trimmed with whooping crane feathers and spotted owlskins and parts of other soon-to-be-extinct animals. And there were leggings made from the lovely skins of reindeer, the one chap called Rudolph, and the other, Vixen.
And then the Smirk had a WONDERFUL, just AWFUL IDEA! He had fooled millions of Dis-United people. He could fool Anyone!
He could be Santa Prez!
[Continued in Chapter 2}
From the author’s latest book, The Annals of Goshen