A Holiday Poem: The Party on the Eve Before Christmas Eve

Sleigh towed by Air Force Tanker

Merry Christmas

‘Twas the party on the eve before Christmas Eve, and all through me older brother’s house, not a shot glass was empty; man, did I ever get sloshed. I was just twelve years old, plenty wet behind the ears, drinking with my sister-in-law, not used to even imbibing beer.

Never had I ever gotten drunk, but that delirious night was la crème de ma tante. Six shots slugged I can remember: here’s mud in your eye, cheerio, bottom’s-up, bonne sante, mazel tov and down the hatch; but the next thing I recall is waking up in the bath. My sister-in-law Doreen was shaking my head and telling me to go lie on their bed.

All the coats and wraps of the party guests were placed atop the quilt with care, making it mighty uncomfortable for resting my derriere while attempting to sleep off this infernal inebriation in my brother’s lair.

The room spun around like a whirling dervish in high gear, making me grasp each side of the mattress out of fear from never having felt this way from so much Christmas cheer.

All this twirling about and the dizziness incurred from the booze, no doubt, launched the contents of my stomach clear through the air, like that of the Exorcist’s Linda Blair. Hell, puke even hit the door and landed all over the floor.

After finally passing out and sleeping for who knows how long, I heard my brother Ray’s terrible, off-key singing, outside in the hallway, leading to the boudoir.

“Mikey,” he trilled while trotting into the room; “it’s time to get up, you need to move; my friends want to go home soon.”

My warbling sibling slipped suddenly and began sliding in my spew, careening across the length of his chamber toward the loo, landing on his tail with a wail in his voice, chastising me while I heard a thump from his rump, announcing the cascading on his rear, clear out the other door, into the bathroom very near.

I held me eyes shut tight, nary making a move while faking sleep that night. With a loud snore, I bet my brother was extremely sore and gathered I’d be in dire straits if he knew I were awake.

Doreen intervened, telling him not to be mean and grabbed the coats from around me. My brother put on another pair of pants and off they went, closing the door behind them, leaving me there spent until after the break of day.

Fortunately, Ray had to leave for work before I awoke; but my punishment was not any less: I had to clean up the rancid mess. I clearly remember it didn’t smell like roses either, making me retch again but this time in the toilet. I swore I’d never drink forevermore.

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About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at Lulu.com.
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2 Responses to A Holiday Poem: The Party on the Eve Before Christmas Eve

  1. Shirley Ann says:

    We’ve all been there at some time in our lives. Merry Christmas x

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