[Image h/t AmyOops]
Charles Johnson never wished anyone a Merry Christmas as far as I could recall, so I broke into the Blogmock Rec Room, busted the lock and opened the rusty hinge on the trap door hidden underneath the cat stuff behind the couch and climbed down into the stifling confines of The Boiler Room. I found a box marked “Christmas.”
You won’t find those legit comments via The Wayback Machine or on The World’s Greatest Search Engine, but there they are, a late, yet appreciated, Christmas present to Diary of Daedalus. Thank you, Charles.
In the spirit of giving, I went to Target today. The shipment will be a bit late, but it’s the thought that counts.
Merry Christmas Charles!
Kinda self-explanatory, ya?
Charles, we just can’t give you enough to make up for what you’ve given us and others over the years. Your fundraisers and generous contributions to charitable causes has been an inspiration to many of us who have followed Little Green Footballs since its inception. Your support of Judeo-Christian values is beyond reproach, especially during this Holiday Season, and we are truly in awe of your unselfish philanthropy. May God bless you and Little Green Footballs for saving so many lives from destitution, and we wish you a very Merry Christmas.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through The Swamp
Not a moonbat was stirring and no furries did romp;
The tweets were posted on the internet with care,
In hopes that Glenn Greenwald would be reading them there;
The Chunkster was nestled all snug in his bed,
While visions of relevance danced in his head;
With his crusted ‘kerchief, and his pony-tail cap,
He had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
He waddled from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the long dead grass
Gave lustre to the “land mines” dropped straight from Gus’ ass,
When, what did his beady eyes should spy,
But the Boiler Room Crew and that Bunky guy.
With evil laughter they moved, so lively and quick,
Chunky knew in a moment it must be those DoD pricks.
More rapid than Eagles the stalkers they came,
Daedalus whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, ChenZhen! Now, Bunk X! Now, Arachne and Briareus!
On, Octo! On Rightymouse! On Abu and Crankypants Zeus!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the stalkers they flew,
With the sleigh full of sockpuppets and The Boiler Room Crew.
And then, in a twinkling, Chunky heard on the roof
It was the stalkers stomping and now he had proof.
As Chunky drew in his head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney the DoD gang came with a bound.
Chunky shook with rage from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with Cheetos dust and soot;
A deflated Ms. Sssss lay on his rack,
And he looked like a middle-aged has-been and an internet hack.
His eyes — how they squinted! his dimples how doughy!
His cheeks were quite flabby, his manboobs quite showy!
His mean little mouth was drawn down in a frown,
And the stubble on his chin was both gray and brown;
The stump of The Ban Stick he held tight in his grip,
And from his ass the brown notes did constantly slip;
He had a fat face and a big round belly,
That shook, when he screamed like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right angry old elf,
And Daedalus laughed when he saw him, in spite of himself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave Chunky to know he had everything to dread;
The DoD gang spoke not a word, but went straight to their work,
They took a dump in Chunk’s living room, then turned with a jerk,
And Daedalus laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney they rose.
Daedalus sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But Chunky heard them exclaim, ere they drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas you fat bastard, and to all a good-night.”
On the Twelfth day of ChristmasCharles Johnson gave to me:
Twelve Banned Commenters
Eleven Hateful Twitters
Nine Java script tips
Eight Greenwald seethings
Seven Vapid Vimeos
Six Outraged brayings
F I V E S T E R N W A R – N I N G S !
Three Phil’s a cretins
Two Jazzy noodlings
and a Pamtrum in a Pear Tree
[Updated with d’s abbreviated 12 Days of Christmas from downstairs. Merry Christmas to everyone. Hope you get socks. – Briareius]
From the denizens who dwell in the bother and the beer beneath the hatch hidden behind the BlogMock Rec Room couch with the cat stuff: Merry Christmas Charles, and thanks for the little green inanity that keeps us all amused. You go, girl.
And to everyone else: Thanks for all the socks!
P.S. To Original Engineer No. 3: We miss you, Nil. God Bless you wherever you are.