On Wednesday, December 16, 2020 at 7:50:58 PM UTC-5, Family Guy wrote:
'Twas the Night before Christmas,
And all around Chad,
Not a space was filled;
No gifts to be had.
No stockings were hung;
Why would he dare?
It would only remind him
That no one was there.
The cats were nestled,
All snug in his lap,
Making it difficult
For him to fap.
When out on the porch
There arose such a clatter,
Chad sprang from the computer desk
To see what was the matter.
Away to the door he waddled like a flash,
Tore his left hamstring
And tripped over some trash.
Opening the door and cursing with madness,
For only a moment he forgot all his sadness.
Out from did Chad's bloodshot eyes did he see,
But a bag of flaming dog poop
With a puddle of pee.
With the flames burning bright so lively and quick,
Chad knew in a moment that he was going to be sick.
More brigher than stars the bag did glow,
Making Chad step back, and bump his left elbow.
And he cursed, and he stomped, and called out some names,
"DAMN YOU, DINK! FUCK YOU TONY EAKS! STEPHEN SIGNORELLI!
ROBERT YOU WINDOW-LICKER! SKEETER YOU FAG!
WHO THE HELL LEFT THIS SHIT IN A BAG??!
"I'LL FIND OUT WHO, YOU BET THAT I WILL!
AND ONCE I FIND OUT I'LL FIND OUT MORE STILL!
GOOGLE WILL HELP ME, IT ALWAYS WORKS GREAT!
I'LL POST ALL YOUR INFO! I DON'T CARE WHAT STATE!
"YOU'LL ALL SEE THAT I AM THE BEST!
NO FLAMING BAG OF SHIT WILL STOP ME,
I'LL POST WHEN I PLEASE!
WHAT THE FUCK! WHO TP'D ALL MY TREES??"
And then in a twinkling, Chad heard from the street,
People laughing and stomping their feet.
As he drew in his head, and was turning around,
A ball of dirt hit his stained nightgown.
Chad stood in the doorway, his clothes in a muss,
Steaming and stewing from all of the fuss.
His clothes were tarnished with Cheetos and dirt,
And holy shit did his elbow hurt.
A bundle of rage he had flung into his brain,
It had been there awhile, slowly driving him insane.
His eyes---how they blinked! His cheeks, how fat!
His belly was big; it once smothered a cat.
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a cleft,
And only a few whiskers of hair were all that were left
Underneath his nose, which whistled as he drew breath---
One look at him and you might think of death.
The stump of fingernails were at the end of his hands,
Where from the keyboard they had been worn down to strands.
And the smell, it encircled his body like a wreath;
Don't get me started on the condition of his teeth.
He was chubby and plump, a pissed off dysfunctional self,
And you'd laugh when you saw him, in spite of yourself;
A sneeze from his nostrils and a cough sent a spoor;
Chad snarled and slammed shut the front door.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to the computer;
He knew what he'd do---he'd bring back The Shooter.
It was a name he'd given himself awhile back,
When people were questioning the sanity he lacked.
Laying his finger inside of his nose,
He was off to the 'net--that's just how it goes.
For to Chad, Christmas is lonely and full of lies.
It's not about the Season, but the waist size.
But his neighbors heard him exclaim,
'Ere he passed out on the john,
"I'LL ALWAYS BE HERE,
THAT YOU CAN COUNT ON!!!"
Bump
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
* Origin: fsxNet Usenet Gateway (21:1/5)