Bar Jokes: Buy Me A Beer If You

Buy me a beer if you want the story told.
Of why I moved down South from the frost and cold.
Why I’m knee deep in therapy, liquor, and pills.
Why I’ve given up charity in lieu of cheap thrills.
Why I loathe mistletoe, fruitcake and bells.
And why I’ll celebrate Xmas when it freezes in hell.
You’ll never see this elf make angels in snow.
Hey thanks for the booze – so I guess here it goes: 'Twas the night after Christmas in the North Pole.
No creatures were stirring, not one lousy soul.
Santa’s house appeared eerily silent.
But inside the fat man was hungry, was violent.
This workshop of toys for kids of all ages.
Was filled with elves quaking in cages.
Who woke up from their long winter’s naps.
To find themselves snared in a devious trap.
Hours before I had been bingeing on nog.
Passed out under the bed, I spied the whole saga.
I saw all my brothers rounded up in cages.
Sleepy victims of wicked midnight rampages.
Then what to my horrified eyes should appear.
But a wild-eyed Santa pinching an elf by the ear.
Each little sprite shook in their tights and boots.
That this monster was Santa, no one could refute.
His size and his beard gave him away as St.
Nick.
His fangs and his scales made me quite sick.
Blood seemed to stain his white fluffy trim.
He was hunched, drooling, and disgustingly slim.
'Come little helper!
Climb into my maw!'
He laughed, then casually ate the elf raw.
He greedily sucked the imp’s hide off the bone.
I was awed!
I was scared!
I was truly alone!
Dainty elf paws clutched bars and cried.
Drunk on denial;
confounded by why.
(He lost his count during his murderous spree Thought he’d rounded up most, but forgot about me!) His hunger was wracking his hunched-over frame.
With a crippling appetite that didn’t know shame.
'Don’t eat us!
We love you!
Look at our faces!'
The doomed little elves made their sad cases.
But Santa ignored them with a swipe of his fist.
Pulled out some parchment and started a list: 'Silence, you nuggets – I’m trying to think.
Who to char-broil, who to blend into drink.
Who to dice, fillet, bake or panfry.
Who to boil in soup, who to stuff in a pie'
These taunts seemed so strange to come from a man.
Who held the dreams of children in his hands.
Teeth full of gristle, he then sadly revealed.
To his captive chorus of angel-faced veal, That humans are greedy, petty, drunk on their vices.
And each Yuletide revel exacts gruesome prices.
These prices are paid by the magical gnomes.
Who hammer the toys that clutter up homes.
The payment’s a life – one for each holiday sin.
Delivered by Santa, after his joyful break-ins.
Perhaps he was cursed by the Easter Bunny.
Or an April Fool’s jester who thought it’d be funny.
The Great Pumpkin, Jack Frost or just maybe – That jealous and bratty New Years Eve baby.
Maybe it was a clue, how well we were fed.
On cookies, cakes, lard balls and bread.
But our nature’s to love, not to distrust.
So we hugged the fat Claus’s and finished each crust.
Ignorant to what would soon transpire We’d collapse in heaps by the crackling fire.
Expecting the old man to come flying back And start making next years toys for his sack.
But how does he have enough sprites for his belly?
The final act of sorrow starts as fetal elf jelly.
That ferments inside his wife until it’s a broth Filled with thimble-sized elves that surge forth like froth.
And these newborn elves, spawned pure from her womb.
Don’t understand: their workshop is really a tomb Their dimples are gumdrops, they sneeze pixie dust.
Santa doesn’t hate them – he’s cursed with a lust.
Elves are packed with vitamins A, C, and E We’re awfully juicy, tart yet also fruity, We go well with gravy and mayonnaise and toast But casserole is how Santa likes us the most.
Barbecued, fricasseed, or flambeed Sunny-side up, shish-ka-bobbed or flayed.
Prepared anyway, our flesh is quite delicious And it’s not like toy-happy children will miss us.
Goodbye Carl, Zud, Sprinkles and Jan!
Blossom, Hortense, Cobweb, and Stan!
Julie, Miss Knickers, Fidget, and Ralph.
I’m sorry you’re dead, you wonderful elf.
A mouthed greased with fat, Santa then hibernated.
As Mrs.
Claus squatted and grossly gestated And all that is left of my cherubic siblings.
Was a pile of bells, curly-toed boots – mostly elf things So much for good cheer!
But don’t shed a tear: This gruesome cycle has happened for hundreds of years.
And as the fist to survive Father’s murderous rout In a month I stopped hiding and got the hell out.'
Now I spend my days soaking under a sun like a yolk (Yeah, I wish I’d have saved all or some of my folk) I now have a tan where the rum’s in supply.
Sewing up flags for Captain Fourth of July.