Whether you favor Christmas, Hanukkah, Diwali, Kwanzaa or nothing at all, there’s something we can all celebrate – another year of Joe Bob, Darcy, and the whole Last Drive-In crew! In honor of St. Nick, LAST CALL brings you a new holiday classic: ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas: Mutant Edition. Enjoy the read, enjoy the holiday season and – most of all – let’s all enjoy one another. They don’t call us MutantFam for nuthin.
Twas the night before Christmas and all through the drive-in, Not a Mutant was stirring, not even John Brennan.
The sweat socks were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nick would bring a new pair.
Yuki was nestled all snug in his bed, while visions of set design danced in his head.
With Darcy in cos, Mr. Joe Bob in cap – had just destroyed Hootenanny and asked “What’s all this crap?”
Outside the trailer it caused such a clatter, Mutant Fam had to ask, “Hey Joe, what’s the matter?!?”
Away to Twitter we all flew like a flash, seeking help from our Mail Girl, hoping servers don’t crash.
With the moon on the breast of impaled Misses Darce, who still bopped to the beat ‘cause it’s all just a farce.
When what to our wondering eyes should appear, Red Christmas and Drive-In, for at least one more year!
Dancing just like Astaire to a Mary Lou jig, we knew in a moment it must be St. Briggs.
More rapid than eagles, his posse they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name.
On Darcy, on Brennan, on Yuki and Austin! On Craig, on Matt, on Crystal and Justin!
To the top of the trailer and the nearest strip mall, now dash away, dash away, dash away all!
As dry leaves before the Demon Winds fly, when they meet with an obstacle and mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, like a Hemi packed with Lone Star – and St. Joe Bob too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As we drew in our heads and turned around, through the roof of the trailer Joe Bob came with a bound.
He was dress’d like a Texan, from his head to his boots, and a bolo that screamed “I ain’t forgot my roots.”
A bundle of flicks was flung on his back, the King of the Mutants, just opening his pack.
His eyes – how they twinkled with devious glee, as he picked out great movies for you and for me.
His droll little mouth was drawn up we doth think, for a long swig of Lone Star or any old drink.
A stump of Demoni he held tight in his teeth, in his left hand some Russell’s, in his right a black wreath.
He had a broad face and a six pack (I muttered), ’cause this here blogger knows where her bread’s buttered
He was lanky and tall, a right jolly old host, and we smile when we see him ‘cause he’s just the most.
With a wink of his eye, Wrangler jeans freshly creased, he cued up some films full of blood, breasts and beasts.
He spoke not a word, except “PUNISH! NAUGHTY!” Laying what by the tree? A freshly dead body!
And laying his finger inside of his nose and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprung to his Hemi, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew, like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight: Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good fright!
