The Subway Diary: 25-Dec-97



After three pints of nog, well-laced with whisky,
Both Jill and myself felt wonderfully frisky.
But below all of the booze, my lust kept well-hid,
For the thing in my pants stayed as soft as a squid.

"It's always the same," sighed my girlfriend, sadly.
"My holiday men all turn out so badly."
"I'm sorry," I comforted, feeling great guilt--
I find you attractive! You're smart, and well built!"

"Don't give me that crap," she dispiritedly muttered,
"I always find boys who are warm sticks of butter.
"Too drunk to screw! Too smashed to care!
It's more than a sexy young girl should bear."

So, shaking her head, she lept from the sack,
As I nodded straightaway into the black.
And came out hours later, in a room without light,
Hearing loud noises that woke me in fright.

I crept to the den, groggy, still smashed,
To see a great jiggling, wiggling ass.
Announced by the creak of jingle bells rocking,
Was Santa, excitedly stuffing Jill's stocking.

"What's this!" I exclaimed, "Get out of my way!
Get back to your reindeer! Return to your sleigh!"
He spun round and sneered, then pulled out with a "thwock,"
Wearing only his hat, with his hand on his cock.

I nearly bit off my petrified tongue
When I saw the degree to which Santa was hung.
The size of the thing gave terrific alarm:
'Twas long as a broomstick, and big as an arm.

"How could you do this! How could you, St. Nick?"
"Leave this house now, and please take your dick."
"You know, I've had better," came his only retort.
"And by the way, I've got venereal warts."

At his whistle, his pants and shirt slid themselves on,
And he walked to the chimney, then quickly was gone.
From the roof I heard hooves, they clattered and clanked,
While the smell down below was tremendously rank.

I yelled, as Jill's eyes grew horribly wide,
"Our relationship's over! Tonight it just died!"
I scream, and I rail, and I finally shout:
"Toast New Year's alone, 'cause I'm moving out."


Now, I've given up whisky for drinking Mylanta,
A lonely, less innocent cuckold to Santa
Each Christmas, in anger, I recall my disgrace.
Alone in my new house--with no fireplace.




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About the author: I've been running this website from 1997. For a living I write stories and essays, program computers, edit things, and help people launch online publications. (LinkedIn). I wrote a novel. I was an editor at Harper's Magazine for five years; then I was a Contributing Editor; now I am a free agent. I was also on NPR's All Things Considered for a while. I still write for The Morning News, and some other places.

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© 1974-2011 Paul Ford


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