This ran in the Tucson Citizen Saturday, Dec. 24, 1988:
A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS, 1988
Editor’s note: It’s Christmas Eve and John Jennings, that jolly old columnist with the rosy cheeks and the rotund girth, is busy delivering a Christmas present to the Citizen’s readers. With profound apologies to Clement Clarke Moore’s 1823 poem, “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” Jennings offers us an updated version.
‘Tis the night before Christmas
and the house is all quiet
as I read all the details
of Oprah’s new diet.
My wife, who has whirlpooled,
Lies beside me in sleep,
Her Retin-A glow
Is much more than skin deep.
Our new antique quilt
lies there at our feet
As we stretch out in comfort
On mauve satin sheets.
Down the hall are the suites
Of young Geoffrey and Wendy,
Whose closets fair bulge
With things tasteful and trendy.
The townhouse is brightly
Lit for the season.
Our gardener’s efforts
Are creative and pleasin’.
A 20-foot spruce
In the living room climbs
(that cathedral ceiling
Comes in handy at times).
Southwestern ornaments
On the limbs are displayed
The newest design
From Old Santa Fe.
In the hopes that St. Nicholas
Soon might appear,
We left blue corn chips, salsa
And Australian beer.
Brightly wrapped presents
Are piled in profusion
Color-coordinated, too,
So there’ll be no confusion.
For Wendy, 15, we’ve bought
Things that’ll suit her:
A nifty hair crimper
And a hard-disk computer.
A few dozen examples
Of designer clothes,
And a surgery voucher
For a redesigned nose.
For Geoff, just 7,
His presents will be
Nintendo, a dirt bike
And a big-screen TV.
A laser-light gun,
A remote-control car,
A new CD player
And an electric guitar.
For the exercise room
A family surprise
A Nautilus gizmo
To shape up our thighs.
My wife gets a hairbrush
Of native-carved bone
And for her BMW,
A cellular phone.
A Cuisinart system
That matches the toaster
I bought her last year
To go with the Oster
A small coffee grinder,
A microwave-baker,
And just what she’s wanted,
A new sushi maker.
Books on the homeless
On bonding, cocooning,
And a sexy new dress
That’ll have her friends swooning.
The kids’ gift for me
Is no problem to guess:
To record “thirtysomething,”
A new VHS.
From my wife, graphite gold clubs
To sharpen my game
And a real leather bag
Embossed with my name.
And if all my hints
Have been listened to:
An L.L. Bean “world’s best”
Collapsible canoe.
As I lie here reflecting
On things great and small,
A voice from outside
My name seems to call.
A glance at my Rolex
Shows it’s a quarter to 1,
And I almost reach for
My German handgun.
But I finally decide
It is nothing of harm
Or it would have triggered
The intruder alarm.
I go to the window,
Crank open the minis
And am nose-to-nose
With a man far from skinny.
“I’m Santa,” says he,
“And I can hardly believe,
“When I checked on my list,
“That there’s nothing to leave.
“It seems every new gadget
“You’ve already bought up,
“And your name’s on the list
“For things not even thought up.
“So I’ll offer best wishes,
“Then be on my way.
“It’s for others, less well-off,
“I’ve loaded my sleigh.”
He speaks to his reindeer,
And away they all dash
As I grab my electronic
Camera with flash.
It seems the split-second
Auto-focus delay
Is all that he needs
To get cleanly away.
But I hear him exclaim
As he rides out of sight,
“Yuppie Christmas to all,
And to all, gouda night!”
