Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring except a $(%%*# mouse.
Where is Ma Bell? I thought. Doesn’t he eat these things?
“Not recently, Frisco, since he found out they were high in cholesterol,” Rooney said.
“Oh yeah, thanks, Roo–wait!” I cried, scaring the mouse I had been sneaking up on. “What are you doing in this story?” The mouse darted under the Christmas tree.
“Tonight, you will be visited by Three Spirits,” Rooney said.
“You must be looking for Franklin,” I said quickly. “And that’s 2019’s Frisco Christmas Story, anyways.”
Rooney checked his principal’s clipboard. “Hmmm, you’re right. About 2019. Who do you have for Ghost of Christmas Past next year?”
“Past? Banjo, obviously,” I said. The mouse had crept back out from the shadows where he had scurried when Rooney appeared. It was eyeing a spot on the mantle where I had hung the stockings by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
Rooney peered in one of the stockings, frowned, and checked off something on his clipboard. Freakin’ principals!! “Christmas Past is supposed to be spritely, like Peter Pan, not old and decreipt” he said.
“Ok, then Parker,” I replied. “He was apparently leading some dance troop in the Apex Christmas Parade so he can pull off that role.”
Rooney looked up from his clipboard. “Frisco, he wasn’t dancing, he was…never mind. CUITG.” Rooney thumped his clipboard twice and disappeared.
I checked the time. By now the 2.0 was nestled all snug in his bed, while visions of sugar-plums danced in his heads; and my M was probably already wearing–uh, and I was in my cap. I just wanted to settle down for a long winter’s nap!
With bunny slipper in hand I knelt and began to bear-crawl toward the mouse then suddenly out on the lawn there arose such a clatter and with perfect form I burpeed up to my feet to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh being pulled by…8 exhausted PAX. I looked closer and noticed that on the side of the sleigh was a sign that read “Blue Ridge Relay Training–Camp Gladitor Special”. There apparently were at least eight suckers born every minute.
There was a little old driver I mistook for Burt (except that you could only hear this guy from 2 miles away so it couldn’t be Burt), but in the next moment I knew it was St. Nick (remember him? He first posted at Field of Dreams, blew merlot on his first–oops, that was Hotty Toddy).
The old man gave a jolly laugh full or mirth. “Now Squatter, now Skyblue, now Hermes and Flacco! On Half! on Snots! on, on Biner–Biner, pour that out!, on Build-a-B–where is Build-a-Bear? Oh, any time now Build-A-Bear…just take it at your own pace. Just half-a-billion houses to hit tonight.” The little old man grumbled something about HIDAs and pulled hard on the reins and drove the sleigh up into the sky.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof the prancing and pawing of 8 PAX trying to plank on a 45 degree angled roof. As I drew in my head at the sound of “Right arm up, aaaaaaaarrrrrgggghhhhhh!!!”, and was turning around, down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound. Then he pulled out a golden fiddle and said “I came back to try again. I done told you once, Frisco, you son-of-a-gun I’m the best that’s ever been!”
“Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “I already used Ma, Parker and Banjo. I’m out of backwoods PAX to use in the joke.”
“What about Riptide?” Santa asked hopefully, reaching for his rosin hopefully.
“No, he’s faux-country,” I answered. The mouse and Santa nodded sagely. “He’s actually from Des Moines or something. He thinks tomato-based is real Bar-B-Q.”
“Swizzle sticks!” Santa grumbled and pulled out a giant list and checked it. “True. And he never did show up that time to Q when Earhar-T posted for the first time.”
“Is, um, that the Naughty List, Santa?” I asked, the mouse and I both taking a tentative step back. Neither of us wanted anything to do with that and if given a choice would rather sign up for a hundred Sooey Qs no matter how bad they were (or one Theismann Q, same difference).
“No, no, this is the Riptide List,” Santa said. “We kept running out of room on the global Naughty List so we just made him one of his own. It’s pretty long.”
I laughed. “That’s what she–” then stopped abruptly noticing Santa’s hand hovering over another List with the name “Red Ryder” clearly visible across the top. I cleared my throat and looked down at my shoes.
Santa rolled up the List and tossed his fiddle back into his sack of toys. “Well, Frisco, what is it you want from Santa tonight?”
I immediately pointed at the mouse. “That thing has got to go! I’ve been up for hours chasing it.”
Old St. Nick laughed uproariously. “Ha! Easier than convincing Shutty to fartsack.” He reached his hand into his toy sack and pulled out a small cat. The mouse eyed the cat warily. “What about this?” he asked.
I danced a small jig of joy and nodded furiously. “Perrrfect.”
Santa frowned. “Don’t do that. You sound like Navin when someone calls Homer-to-Marge.”
I quickly sobered (also proof that I wasn’t in the presence of Burt). Which is about the time the cat began to speak and things got just a little weird.
“Really, Frisco?!?” it yelled. “Yeah, it’s me, lunkhead. Hello Kitty. Better known as Brian From Cary in the Carpex Gloom. You made me a cat wearing wading boots and a cape. Yellow wading boots! Who does that?” Hello Kitty was right. I shook my head embarrassed. This whole thing was starting to feel like a conversation with Liverpool–the kind where you actually come out dumber on the other side. All I had wanted was to get the stupid mouse out of the house so that I could enjoy Christmas morning with the family.“Kitty,” I said. “The Pick Up the 6 podcast roster has been a little light on disqualified finishers for Carpex HIM of the Year getting a chance to tell their side of the story.” It was true. YHC had been disqualified from the running after an alleged ballot box padding incident (too soon?) where some unknown person had scratched out “Disco Duck” and written in “Frisco”. Some other person (who probably won HIM of the Year) went back in wrote a word that rhymed with “Duck” before the “Frisco” and oddly the phrase was catching on in the gloom.
“Frisco!” Santa chided me. “You are dangerously close to getting on the Naughty List.”
I started to protest when I noticed Hello Kitty leading the mouse out for an interview on Pick Up the 6. “Seriously!?” I yelled. “The mouse gets an interview?”
Santa gave a jolly laugh. “And I am after him, Frisco.” Then with a wink of his eye and a twist of his head, he soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose! He sprang to his sleigh, to his BRR team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a Good-Night!”
“It’s Merry!” I yelled out the window after the jolly man and his 8 heavily-panting “reindeer”.
“That’s my name!” said a woman’s voice behind me. Where was Slackbot when I needed it?