Funny Night Before Christmas Shotgun Shell

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1. 

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   Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
   All the creatures were hiding, except for one mouse
   The shotguns were hung over the mantle with care,
   I held a .22 hoping the mouse soon to be there

   My kids were nestled each snug in their own bunk
   Dreaming of cleaning guns all covered with gunk
   And mama with her 22 and me with mine on my lap
   Were both hoping to waste the mouse with a quick double tap

   When out in the pantry there arose such a clatter,
   That we both jumped up armed to see what was the matter
   Away to the kitchen we made a mad dash
   Threw open the pantry anticipating muzzle flash

   The night light on the crest of the utensils did glow
   Giving an eerie weird look to the pantry down low
   When what to our wondering eyes should appear
   But a miniature sleigh pulled by vermin - drinking beer

   With a little old mouse driver, lively but none too quick
   I realized in a moment it must be that thieving little prick
   More rapid than roaches his coursers they came
   As he whistled and chittered and called them by name

   Now Boll Weevil, and Gnat, now Roach and Bed Bug.
   On Bot Fly, and Silverfish, On Ant, and Slug.
   To the top of the pantry, to the very top shelf.
   Now crawl away, crawl away, don't be stomped on by an elf.

   Like dust bunnies into a vacuum cleaner swiftly fly
   As they get sucked up into the nozzle to certainly die
   So up toward the cookies his coursers they flew
   With a sleigh full of beer cans and that smelly mouse too

   And then in a twinkling, I heard on the shelf top
   A noise for certain I knew was mouse plop
   I started to draw a bead bringing my 22 up and around
   And suddenly on my face the mouse jumped with a bound

   He was covered with gray fur from head to foot
   And his dirty little claws were covered with grease and soot
   A bundle of crumbs he had flung over his back
   And he looked like a Bowery Bum about to attack

   His eyes they were beady, he seemed none too merry
   He dug scratches into my cheeks, the color of cherry
   His mouth was all puckered in a maniacal grin
   And this was not my idea of how to cash it all in

   A piece of my skin, he held tight in his teeth
   And smoke from a startled shot encircled it like a wreath
   He had a pointy little snout, and a long hairless tail
   He bit me again, and I began to wail

   He was cubby and plump, but jumped back onto the shelf
   And that's when I thought about avenging myself
   But with a wink of his eye and a twist of his head
   He avoided my shot as if he had nothing to dread

   He spoke not a word, but went back to his work
   Trying to refill his sack that thieving little jerk
   Then my wife took aim right at his nose
   And blasted a hole in his head red as a rose

   The blast tossed him up pretty high in the air
   And he landed on the vermin squashing them there
   Then I turned toward my little sharpshootin missus
   And I gave her at least a hundred Christmas kisses

   Maybe a little early on the delivery but Merry Christmas to all.....
   Glenn B

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   Yeah - ok maybe it belongs in hunting but it does mention guns.....

3. Happy Holidays to All.

   I like it!

6. Get some of the primer only .22lr and then chant the mantra "shot placement" "shot placement" "won't damage the walls TOO much" "shot placement"...

7. Just wait until it warms up some. Then buy a ball python and let it loose in your house. I guarantee by the time it starts getting cold you will not have a mouse problem. This very thing happened in an apartment building I lived in up in Massachusetts.

   Sometimes the simple solutions are the best.

8. This was written by Dave Workman, Sr. Editor at Gun Week and involved with SAF/CCRKBA.

   For some reason NOBODY who posts this bothers to do a quick google search first to see who the author is.

   Kinda sad.

9. 

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   Excuse me, are you saying that the poem I placed in the initial thread is the work of someone else. It is not. I you implying plagerism on my part. You seem to imply it is sad that no one gives credit to someone other than me for writing this. I wrote it. While the original Twas The Night Before Christmas is definitely not my own work, the above poem certainly is my own work. I have posted this online for a few years now, I have been modifying it for even more years than that. If anyone else has used it please let me know. I am not one for taking credit for the words or deeds of another, and if someone else took credit for my words I will address the situation.

   Of course if it is another version, in his own words, I would agree that almost anyone could think up something as silly as this poem - the original one has been aped for years. If however it is virtually the same, then I take exception to your belief that this is not my own work, it would be more likely that my work was copied as this poem was most definitely was written by me and; the only inspiration I had was the original poem (of over 100 years ago) and a loose mouse in my house at Christmas time several years ago. I breed the mice to feed my snakes, yes I keep snakes too, and a mouse escaped; catching it was a pain. Fantasizing about how I should or could have gotten it was amusing at least to me and I wrote a poem about that fantasy.

   Please do not imply that I copied Mr. Workman's poem by saying it is sad that no one googled it to discover its true author, when I am the author. What would be sad is that anyone would jump to the conclusion that I would not give due credit for using someone else's words without first asking me if these were my words or those of someone else.

   If you have a link to Dave Workman's version, please post it so I can check it out. Thanks

   Best regards,
   Glenn B

10. 

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    As expected...

    Well, just in case any of you younger guys and gals are not familiar with the REAL original of: Twas The Night Before Christmas, here it is, as written by Clement C. Moore (although even that is dsiputed by some today):

    THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
    by Clement Clarke Moore

    'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

    Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

    The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

    In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

    The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

    While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

    And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

    Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

    When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

    I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

    Away to the window I flew like a flash,

    Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

    The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

    Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

    When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

    But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

    With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

    I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

    More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

    And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

    "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

    On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

    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 coursers they flew,

    With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

    And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

    The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

    As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,

    Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

    He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

    And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

    A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

    And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

    His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

    His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

    His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

    And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

    The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

    And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

    He had a broad face and a little round belly,

    That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

    He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

    And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

    A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

    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 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."

    Always refreshing, and always an easy one to play with if you are in the mood for some parody. Google that!

11. I liked it alot good work.

12. My apologies. Yours was close to enough to Dave's (as you were both parodying the same original) that I mistook this for another repost of Workman's on reading the first couple lines of yours. My bad. Had I read further I'd have recalled more of Dave's and what the differences are.

    Here's Dave Workman's version, first edition:

    =========
    'Twas the night before Christmas, cold, dark and foreboding,
    As I sat at the workbench, quite busy reloading,
    The empties from autumn were polished so clear,
    For primers and powder, and bullets from Speer.

    And Sierra boat-tails, and Nosler´s Partitions
    (My bench ain´t no place for brand name omissions!)
    All sat in their boxes, right next to the press,
    With dies from Pacific, and RCBS.

    When all of a sudden there came such a jolt,
    I grabbed for my Mossberg, and whipped out my Colt.
    As I spilled Hodgdon's powder all over the shelf,
    I scrambled for cover, just to protect myself.

    From up on the rooftop, came hoofbeats and snorting,
    Like the noise out of L'l Rock, from Clinton's cavorting!
    I eased off the safety, to press-check my auto
    With 230-hardball, I´d knock ´em all blotto.

    Were these rogue federal agents, sent by Schumer and Reno?
    Or a staggering Ted Kennedy, in bad need of Beano?
    My question was answered with a knock, and some sneezing,
    "It's Santa, you moron, lemme in there, I'm freezing!"

    I flipped off the dead-bolt and threw the door wide,
    To find St. Nick a'shivering, Rudolph by his side
    He eyeballed my Springfield, with a nod of approval
    "You're all set," he said, "for dirtball removal."

    "But this is no raid, we're not here to harm you
    Or persecute, prosecute, or even disarm you."
    Instead, said dear Santa, he needed to borrow
    My .357, 'till day after tomorrow.

    "Its okay," he assured me, with a hint of frustration.
    "I'm enrolled in the National Rifle Association."
    He showed me his card, 'twas a Life Member rating
    "I've had this since me and the missus were dating!"

    "And you see, Dave ol' buddy, I've gotten real nervous
    Since Feinstein was elected, with a promise to serve us."
    So henceforth as I´m out there, my presents a'stackin'
    "I want to assure you, I´m legally packin'."

    "And my gift for you this year, should give you a hoot
    "I´ve told the Supreme Court to give Brady the boot!
    "Now, Rudy and I must be on our way."
    He said, as he climbed back on the seat of his sleigh.

    With the reins in his hand, and my Smith in his pocket
    He jingled the sleigh bells and was off like a rocket.
    With a pair of speed loaders, and ammo to spare
    I knew he´d be safe, he was loaded for bear.

    As he faded from view, I could still hear him calling,
    "From DC, where 'PC' is already falling,
    "To bad guys in LA, Detroit and Atlanta:
    "I´m licensed to carry. Don´t be messin' with Santa!"

    ========================
    Dave Workman followed that edition another year with this titled "And then... Two Days Later...":
    ========================

    'Twas the day after Christmas when Santa returned
    He was looking quite happy, all trim and sunburned
    His sleigh had been emptied, and I'll bet you're all guessin'
    If he did the same thing to his borrowed Smith & Wesson

    Well the fact of the matter is in need of reporting
    Like the press ought to do about Clinton's cavorting.
    Seems Santa encountered some trouble 'long the way,
    'Cause some not-too-bright dirtbags tried to hijack his sleigh

    When he left Christmas Eve, he was ready for action
    And he made real good time, thanks to reindeer hoof traction.
    He had rag dolls, and capguns, baseballs and bats,
    New dresses, toy airplanes, and a few dogs and cats.

    Seems these wannabe grinches thought they were hot shooters
    So's a bunch of 'em tried to be Christmas gift looters
    But the one thing they hadn't expected to meet,
    Was a licensed St. Nick, packin' full magnum heat.

    The night was still young, when these dipwits appeared
    Their caps all turned backwards; at least one had a beard.
    They were trying to look vicious, as they stood in his path,
    He could tell in an instant that they needed a bath.

    One fool made a grab for Comet and Cupid,
    But froze when St. Nick had yelled, "Hold it there, stupid!"
    When he leveled my sixgun at this crazy-eyed fellow,
    The snow at his feet turned a pale shade of yellow.

    "It was over real quick," Santa said with a chuckle.
    As he hauled out my Smith from behind his belt buckle.
    "Never fired a shot, never pulled back the hammer.
    Got the cops on my cell phone, and sent 'em all to the slammer."

    After that much excitement, 'twas a rest Santa needed.
    So with his gift-giving, he quickly proceeded.
    And when he was finished, Santa issued this order:
    "Rudolph, old pal, takes us south of the border!"

    So now he was rested, and this stop was his last one.
    And he made it real clear that it must be a fast one.
    With my piece back in lockup, he said "Thanks for the loan.
    Next year, rest assured, I'll be packin' my own."

    And just what, did I wonder, might then Santa unlimber?
    A Colt, Sig or Taurus, a Glock or a Kimber?
    Perhaps Heckler & Koch, a Kahr or a Ruger?
    A wheelgun from Rossi, a Walther or Luger?

    "I'm not sure," replied Santa, as he scoped out the weather.
    "But I'll contact your buddy, Mitch Rosen, for leather.
    And now I must leave you, until late next December.
    But Dave, I assure you, I will always remember.

    "You did me a favor, and that's one I owe you.
    So when I get my own gatt, I'll be certain to show you.
    In the meantime, ol' buddy, I'll scream it, I'll shout it.
    If you're licensed to carry, don't you leave home without it!"

    -Dave Workman
    =========

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