or a Couple’s Answer to Holiday Stress

by Helen Ksypka

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…

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Except for a wife who was ready to snap.
“I have twenty more presents I still need to wrap.”
Her husband was missing. She yelled out to Bill.
“Where the fuck are you now? There are stockings to fill.”

Bill was upstairs. With a bellow, he said.
“Our three little monsters will not go to bed.”
A rumble, a tumble, the sound of a clap.
“The kids are asleep. They just needed a slap!”

Out on the lawn, a cacophonous clatter.
“Give me a break–what the hell is the matter?”
Off to the window, Bill flew in a flash.
“Doesn’t look good.” Then the sound of a crash.

Slipping and sliding on new-fallen snow,
Neighbors were yelling, “Bill, look out below!”
A big plastic sleigh and the reindeer, all eight,
Fell from the roof and then smashed through the gate.

Wifey came screaming while wielding a stick.
“You son of a bitch; they were mounted too quick.
You didn’t secure them; and you are to blame.
You bastard, you loser,” she called him by name.

“My Dasher, my Dancer, my Prancer and Vixen
And Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen–
They’re broken to bits on the cobblestone wall.
Better clean up this mess, ev’ry speck–that is all.”

Wifey went storming back into the house,
Slamming the door on her dolt of a spouse.
Groused at her holiday chores with a groan.
Then out went the lights when the fuses were blown.

Very soon after, she heard on the roof,
A sound like a paw–then a thunderous hoof.
She opened the door and looked up and around.
Bill and a ladder were both on the ground.

His planning to put up the lights went kaput.
But Bill was quite jolly, all covered in soot.
Wifey lamented, poor Bill on his back,
‘Til bottles of whiskey fell out of his sack.

Wifey went whirling like hurricanes fly,
Veins popping out, with her fist to the sky.
“Your cheeks are like roses, your nose like a cherry.
Hitting the sauce is the reason you’re merry.”

She picked up his pipe which she knocked in his teeth,
Then pummeled his head with a pine-coney wreath.
But Bill was so soused that his oversized belly
Just shook when he laughed–like a bowlful of jelly.

A few hours later, Bill staggered inside.
“A mistletoe kiss?” His advance was denied.
She wouldn’t be moved with a wink of his eye,
As Wifey responded, “You’re useless. Go die!”

She felt she had married the ultimate jerk.
But sober or drunk she would put him to work.
“These ornaments need to be hung on the tree.
And after you finish, report back to me.”

“You listen up, Wifey, you’re worse than the grinch.
We’re both overwhelmed, but you won’t give an inch.
And just for the record, you’re not being fair.
I shopped for the food and those toys over there.”

“Well I did the cooking,” she said in a huff.
And all of the cleaning; that’s more than enough.”
“Well who do you think got the tree in the van?
It sure wasn’t you. You’re not strong like a man.”

Their battle ensued to a feverish pitch.
She called him an asshole. He called her a bitch.
Candy canes breaking and tinsel a-flying.
The pressure, the tension, the tantrums, the crying.

Just before blows, on the verge of a split,
The couple exclaimed, “It’s this holiday shit!”
Wifey acknowledged to Bill, “I confess
I’m ready for whiskey–a sip–for the stress.”

Bottles of spirits they gulped without lag.
Their marriage was saved, with them both in the bag.
They slobbered with joy as they slurred with delight,
“Crerry Mistmas to all–and to all a nood ghite.”