Roland Burris retooled Clement Clarke Moore’s famous Twas the Night Before Christmas in order to get his point across about health care to the members of the Senate. It got a lot of media attention, and maybe struck a chord in the hearts of the little Christian boys that live inside of each and every GOP senator’s pants soul.
Watch it here.
Dr. Soos’ half brother, Wade Cartright, a homophobic racist preacher from west Alabama, did his own rendition of Moore’s masterpiece and read it for the annual Christmas gathering at the local Elk lodge. Full text below. Enjoy!
Twas the day after Chanukah and all through the land
Not a creature was stirring; not beast, child nor man.
The lights had gone out and the latkes were eaten,
on a corner somewhere, a little black boy was beaten.
But this is not a story about Raekwon al Rashim
not about the Mozel Tov fairy nor Yitzach Rabin.
This is the tale of a dreary young lad,
who dealt drugs in Alaska because he hated his dad.
A sad tale indeed, of Bob Rubenstein–
“Bobby the winner,” once upon a time.
It all changed when his father, Shlomo the butcher, was found-out
to be the murderous killer who’d been lurking about.
He killed without mercy, without joy, without tact
Unlike Hannibal Lecter, it was taste that he lacked.
He’d kill and kill and murder some more;
a Jewish American Princess, 3 mimes, twice a whore.
But, again, this story is not about Shlomo
It’s about his son, Bobby, the drug-dealing homo.
He flew to Alaska when his dad was arraigned
to peddle marijuana, heroine and cocaine.
The Eskimo people were all but taken
by Bobby’s charm, his drugs, and the way he sliced bacon.
Breakfasts at noon, lunch at half-past four.
Dinner at seven, but they’d eat some more…
all into the night, the Eskimos ate,
fueled by Bob’s pot, man it was great.
“Bobby,” they’d say, “your pot, it’s so good…”
Bobby would smile and tighten his hood.
“I’m glad you like it,” he’d turn and say in his way, “now I must be going, though I wish I could stay.”
The Eskimos pleaded with Bob Rubenstein
To stay in their land and have a good time.
Good times were gone, though, for young Bobby R,
He’d ran from his home, his girl and his car.
All he had now was his tiny igloo
a Tranny named Footsie, and a cold, icy loo.
Through was this lad with strange sex, cold food and ass cheeks
He had to get home, he’d been there for weeks.
So he jumped on a walrus and sailed 20 days
over the bearing straight, to the land of the gays.
In San Fran he has been for the past 24 years,
Enjoying good light, sour dough and the queers.
The moral of the story is found in this rhyme:
If your dad is a serial killer, best learn to 69.
The end.