A Politically Correct Christmas Poem

Now, I get pretty frustrated with all of the politically correct crap that's oh-so abundant during the holiday season. I guess I had been under the impression that it's only been recently that politcal correctness had actually run amok to the point that is was obvious to everyone (yet talked about by almost no one). But quite sadly, that is apparently not the case.

I ran across the poem below today. It was wrote in 1992 by a gent by the name of Harvey Ehrlich. Well, it was copyrighted in 1992, so I suppose it could have been written even earlier than that. The point is that is was wrote at least 17 years ago and I swear to you, you'd think that it was penned last week. Seriously. 17 years later and so many folks in society are still acting in the same idiotic manner. What say we try and give that a rest next year, all rightee? Then we can start looking back on this poem and feeling grateful that we're not like this anymore. Now that would truly be a Christmas miracle!

‘Twas the night before Christmas and Santa’s a wreck…

How to live in a world that’s politically correct?

His workers no longer would answer to “Elves,”

“Vertically Challenged” they were calling themselves.

And labor conditions at the North Pole

Were alleged by the union to stifle the soul.

Four reindeer had vanished, without much propriety,

Released to the wilds by the Humane Society.

And equal employment had made it quite clear

That Santa had better not use just reindeer.

So Dancer and Donner, Comet and Cupid,

Were replaced with 4 pigs, and you know that looked stupid!

The runners had been removed from his sleigh;

The ruts were termed dangerous by the E.P.A.

And people had started to call for the cops

When they heard sled noises on their roof-tops.

Second-hand smoke from his pipe had his workers quite frightened.

His fur trimmed red suit was called “Unenlightened.”

And to show you the strangeness of life’s ebbs and flows,

Rudolf was suing over unauthorized use of his nose

And had gone on Geraldo, in front of the nation,

Demanding millions in over-due compensation.

So, half of the reindeer were gone; and his wife,

Who suddenly said she’d enough of this life,

Joined a self-help group, packed, and left in a whiz,

Demanding from now on her title was Ms.

And as for the gifts, why, he’d ne’er had a notion

That making a choice could cause so much commotion.

Nothing of leather, nothing of fur,

Which meant nothing for him. And nothing for her.

Nothing that might be construed to pollute.

Nothing to aim. Nothing to shoot.

Nothing that clamored or made lots of noise.

Nothing for just girls. Or just for the boys.

Nothing that claimed to be gender specific.

Nothing that’s warlike or non-pacific.

No candy or sweets…they were bad for the tooth.

Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth.

And fairy tales, while not yet forbidden,

Were like Ken and Barbie, better off hidden.

For they raised the hackles of those psychological

Who claimed the only good gift was one ecological.

No baseball, no football…someone could get hurt;

Besides, playing sports exposed kids to dirt.

Dolls were said to be sexist, and should be passe’;

And Nintendo would rot your entire brain away.

So Santa just stood there, disheveled, perplexed;

He just could not figure out what to do next.

He tried to be merry, tried to be gay,

But you’ve got to be careful with that word today.

His sack was quite empty, limp to the ground;

Nothing fully acceptable was to be found.

Something special was needed, a gift that he might

Give to all without angering the left or the right.

A gift that would satisfy, with no indecision,

Each group of people, every religion;

Every ethnicity, every hue,

Everyone, everywhere…even you.

So here is that gift, it’s price beyond worth…

“May you and your loved ones enjoy peace on earth.”

copyright Harvey Ehrlich, 1992
Notice: This poem is copyright 1992 by Harvey Ehrlich. It is free to distribute, without changes, as long as this notice remains intact.

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Is There A Back Up Poet? Just In Case?

Meanwhile, as a select group of people continue to freak out over the selection of Pastor Rick Warren to do something at the Presidential Inauguration (all I can figure out is that he's going to speak. I don't know why, I don't know what about. He'll be there and there will be words coming out of his mouth. That's all I've got for you.), there is a simply grand story that seems to be getting lost in all of the made up fervor over Pastor Warren. And what's the one thing that would make for even better pre-inaugural scrutinizing fodder than a "controversial" pastor? That's right, the Inaugural Poet! What? Wait. There's an inaugural poet?

There is NOW! Meet one Elizabeth Alexander, a friend of Barry's and his choice to write and recite a poem at the inauguration. Now, just because you're about to be sworn in as President of the United States, that doesn't mean that you have to have a poet. You can go poetless. After all, there have only been three other poets prior to Ms. Alexander and the first one was Robert Frost who was selected by JFK, so it's not like some age-old practice steeped in tradition. The only other President who felt the need for things to rhyme on a cold January afternoon was Bill Clinton and he felt the need to do so twice. (It must have felt pretty good the first time in order for Bill to want to do it again.)

Now, if I were being inaugurated as President of the United States (Hey! Stop laughing over there!) and I had to pick an Inaugural Poet, I'd go with Dr. Seuss. Yeah, I know he's dead, but I'd have one of his relatives fill in or something. It would be awesome! You can say anything in a Dr. Seuss-like fashion and it will sound cheery and good! You could stand up there and announce impending doom and it would just sound cheery!

I must confess!

This country's a mess!

And by the end of the year

You'll have a lot less!

See? See how I did that? AND you liked it even though the message it sends is "We suck." But do you see how you just didn't care when it was presented in that manner? It's all about delivery. Well, that and location, location, location.

But back to the poet. If you're going to be all rhyme-y, but not in a Seuss-esque manner, you really have to try and make it so that people want to hear your poem. That's why there isn't such a big call for poets these days. They leave out the Seuss and they leave out the stuff-that-people-like factor as well. And then what do you have? Open-mike poetry night once a month at the local pub, that is correct. I mention these things because I've run across and read some of Ms. Alexander's work. It is, in a word, breathtaking. It is also, in a word, long. Really long. So I'll just give you a sample. You can find the entire poem and others (oh, there are others, all right!) on Elizabeth Alexander's website. But, in the meantime, behold!

"Is
funky, is
leaky, is
a soggy, bloody crotch, is
sharp jets of breast milk shot straight across the room,
is gaudy, mustard-colored poop, is
postpartum tears that soak the baby’s lovely head."

Oh, what the hell is that?! Um, does that say "mustard-colored poop"? (Gives a whole new meaning to "Grey Poupon" now, doesn't it?)And did she also mention a "soggy, bloody crotch"? (Enjoying this yet, guys?!) Yes, I believe she mentioned both of those, um, things. And just so you know, in case you can't bring yourself to read the entire thing, she also mentions, in the same poem, "poop" "apricot juice" "pregnant" "sensible shoes", a "mammoth giblet", "Tupperware", a "bloody mesa", "cast-off meat", "breast", "placenta", a "Senegalese head wrap", "OB-Gyn", "a loaf of whole wheat bread", "electric breast pumps", "each exhausted tit", "human cargo", and of course, the ones you were waiting for, "Karl Malden" and "The Streets of San Francisco". Um, WTF?!

I'll be the first to admit, I don't understand a whole lot of poetry. I mean, I get it, I just don't understand why it's supposed to be so great. What? Because it has short and choppy little sentences? (That would be Reason Number ONE why I could never become a poet.) I don't know, I just don't get it. But before now, the poetry that I didn't get was fairly normal. This poetry that I don't get, seems a bit....what's the word?.....oh, whack-a-doo.

Seriously. A placenta? Karl Malden? Well, I tried to give this woman the benefit of the doubt and thought that maybe she was just having an overly creative (I use that term loosely) day when she came up with that, um, piece of work. So I read some other poems. She has one called "The Venus Hottentot". I really like the word "hottentot" and not just because it reminds me of something else that I love, tater tots. But when I read this poem, it was nothing like the hottentots I like to think of. No, it was a little more....what's the word?......oh, whack-a-doo. Behold! Hottentot-ism!

"Her genitalia
will float inside a labeled

pickling jar in the Musee
de l’Homme on a shelf

above Broca’s brain
"The Venus Hottentot.”

Elegant facts await me
Small things in this world are mine."

WHY is no one talking about THIS?!?! Are you kidding me?! Wait, don't get me wrong. I don't have a problem with this woman being the Inaugural Poet. (If I have a problem with anything, it's that she gets $20,000 to do this. That seems excessive, especially whatever she cranks out is anything like the Hottentot Homage here.) I'm just perplexed as to why this hasn't been jumped all over yet! Are all of the media outlets who have been in the tank for Barry since Day One afraid that it will damage his Messiah-like image that his veal calf-esque followers believe him to have? I really can't speculate too much because my jaw is still trying to pick itself up off of the floor. But every other person who is intentionally or inadvertently thrust into the media spotlight, especially if the person has anything at all to do with the campaign or politics in general (ie, Joe the Freaking Plumber, Reverend Jeremiah Wright, the yet-to-be-acquired Presidential Pet, etc.), they are soon watching their entire life flash before them...usually on the 10 o'clock news.

Back to the Hottentot for a moment. (There's a sentence I never thought I'd say, kind of always hoped that I would, and really didn't want to in this context.) Again, I repeat, I don't get a lot of this poetry stuff, so there could be a reasonable interpretation from this excerpt I'm about to share, but I don't know what it is. Maybe you do. Behold! Hottentot, Part Deux!

"Monsieur Cuvier investigates
between my legs, poking, prodding
sure of his hypothesis.
I half expect him to pull silk
scarves from inside me, paper poppies,
then a rabbit! He complains
at my scent and does not think
I comprehend"

Well, OK then. WHY HAVEN'T I HEARD ABOUT THIS BEFORE NOW?!!? Good Lord, we're all doomed.....

Look, I'm all for new things. Change is good (from what I hear). But I don't know if I'm ready for the sort of change that has things like "between the legs investigations" mentioned in the Inauguration Ceremony by the Inaugural Poet. I just don't think I'm that evolved. Actually, I don't know if I will ever be that evolved. I don't want to forever more associate Barry with "placenta". It would be wrong. Not to mention disturbing. On many levels.

But I do trust Barry. I think he has pretty sound judgment. So if the bloody placenta woman is good enough for him, well, :::gulp:::: then I guess the bloody placenta woman is good enough for me too. (Who said that?! WTF?!)

So be sure to tune in to the inauguration ceremony on January 20, 2009! And listen in for any of the oh-so-NOT-poetic words discussed here today. (You know, "placenta", "Tupperware" and the like.) By the way, to give you an idea of what sort of poetry would have been perfectly acceptable to me to have read at the Presidential Inauguration, I present to you the best poem ever by a cartoonist impersonating a penguin impersonating a poet.

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The Worst of the Worst

Here's your chance. 35 of William McGonagall's poems are going to be auctioned off! Who the hell is William McGonagall, you ask? Well, he's pretty much known over there in the UK as the World's Worst Poet. Now, the world is a pretty big place, so that's quite the accomplishment...even if his poem's really do suck.

McGonagall died in 1902. He spent the later half of his life being mocked and having food and other objects thrown at him when he would read his poems in Dundee. His poems covered a wide range of topics, including various Scottish battles and Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee. (A Jubilee over there is like the anniversary of the monarch's reign. Thus, the Golden Jubilee would be like the Golden Anniversary which is the 50th Anniversary. Why they just can't say "50th" over there, I don't know. They always have to have these complicated phrases for everything. Confusing people, but very likeable chaps, those Brits.) Along with wars and royal anniversaries, the guy took great pleasure in writing about death and catastrophes. (Huh. Diverse.)

One of McGonagall's most famous works that illustrates his writing about something called the Tay Bridge Disaster of 1879, when a storm destroyed the Tay Bridge as a train passed over it. (Nice.) Part of it goes like this:

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!

With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array

And your central girders, which seem to the eye

To be almost towering to the sky.

The greatest wonder of the day,

And a great beautification to the River Tay,

Most beautiful to be seen,

Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,

Until it was about midway,

Then the central girders with a crash gave way,

And down went the train and passengers into the Tay....

Yeah, that's pretty bad. Accurate, but just horrible. (I'm really glad the voices in his head didn't tell him to write bedtime stories for children. That would not have ended well.) One of the auctioneers at Lyon and Turnbull (the firm doing the auctioning), a one Alex Dove, said that McGonagall didn't even start writing poetry until he was around 47 and the voices in his head that he heard told him that he would be able to write poems. (Yeah, see, that's a pretty good indicator right there of why this all turned out the way that it did.) McGonagall (and the voices) thought that his poems were just great! (Shocking, I know.) In fact, he was so sure that his poems were so great that he thought that he should be the poet laureate! That's the thing about hearing voices in your head. They're not always all that honest with you.

What ended up happening was that the guy developed a reputation for bad poems and also for an inability to recognize that his poems were bad. But he seemed to take great joy in giving readings of these horrible poems (probably because he thought they were good). That's why the townspeople of Dundee would encourage (trick) him into giving a performance just so that they could make fun of him and throw vegetables at him. (They must have had a lot of extra produce lying around back then.) But who are we talking about by name over 100 years later? It's not the produce hurlers, it's McGonagall. What does that tell you? Good for you, Mr. Horrible Poetry Writing Guy. Good for you.

He kind of sounds like a guy who really meant well but just sucked at writing poetry. Another of his "hobbies" was campaigning against alcohol (for his entire life!) and he wrote a poem (another shocker) that was meant to warn people about the dangers of alcohol. However, I have the feeling that this poem might have done just the opposite and driven people to start drinking.

Oh, thou demon Drink, thou fell destroyer;

Thou curse of society, and its greatest annoyer.

What hast thou done to society, let me think?

I answer thou hast caused the most of ills, thou demon Drink."

Um, why, yes! I'd love a drink! Thank you!

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