T’was the Grope Before Christmas

This is a story about a drunk guy at a bar I used to work at a couple of years ago. And when he tried to grab me by my naughty bits. Just two days before Christmas. It is, obviously, painstakingly modeled after T’was the Night Before Christmas. Because what better way to parody that poem? Enjoy.

T’was the Grope Before Christmas

T’was two nights before Christmas, when all through Pops,
Not a creature was stirring, not even the fops.
The bottles were hung in the bar rail with care,
In hopes that drunkards soon would be there.

The cookies were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of whores danced in their heads.
And Colleen in her bubbles, and I in my grape,
Had just settled our brains for an alcoholic rape.

When out on my shoulder there arose such a clatter,
I sprang away to see what was the matter.
Away to the bar I flew like a flash,
Alas his grip held; we were eyelash to eyelash.

The light of Squirrel bouncing off the Bordeaux,
Gave the luster of perversion to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a groping palm and five fumbling fingers.

With a putrid cologne, so strong and musky,
I knew it must be European misogyny.
More rapid than pumas his misplaced compliments came,
And he whispered, and slurred, and boozily proclaimed;

“You a beautiful women! Lovely! A Vixen!
Beautiful! Beautiful! Oh, I am blitzen…
Why you struggle and cringe? Recoil and flinch?
I would so much like to give you a pinch.”

As Colleen laughed and now Gregg cried, “Whoa!”
The inebriated fellow continued his public porno.
So over to the bar-top the groper he sways,
With the hand full of digits, and so unfazed.

And then, in the grasping, I remained aloof,
To the prancing and pawing of his strange hoof.
As I drew in myself, ducked and turned around,
Dammit! The boozehound stood his ground.

He was dressed in a suit, from his head to his toe,
And his clothes were all rumpled with sweat, and rouleau.
A bundle of coins he had spent on his whores,
And he looked like a john just covered in sores.

His eyes – how they died! His dimples how gross!
His cheeks filled with capillaries, his nose was rimose.
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a sneer,
And the beard of his chin was damp with sour beer.

The chump of a man blinked and gritted his teeth,
And headphones encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a flawed face and a little tiny dick,
That, I’m assuming, because he was such a dipshit.

He was a train wreck, a right jolly dumb fuck,
And I laughed when I saw him, despite my luck.
A lurch of his feet and a turn of his hip,
Soon, I could tell all of this grabby hardship.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his drink,
And put it to his maw; Gregg appeared in a blink.
And arguing his case, “I compliment woman!”
And finally resigning, understanding the ban;

He sprang to the door, to the patrons gave adieu,
And away they all snubbed him like a man with the flu.
But I heard him exclaim, as he stumbled out of sight,
“You American dickcheese! And to all a good night!”

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