Mabuse, I've been reading your posts for a long time and you can make George madder than I can. I look forward to seeing your Christmas story submission.
You know, my friend, that if B-Grade horror & SciFi have taught us anything, it is to "beware of what you wish for..." OBVIOUSLY that lesson has NOT sunk in on you--
yet! 
So, for you:
T’was the night before Christmas, and over the air,
George Nuri was broadcasting doom and despair:
“Just one thousand ninety-two days so beware
Nibiru arrives with a big solar flare!
Please think of the children,--
Mah-
REET-
sa so sweet,
Who’ll be turned into slaves for the Global Elite.
And all of the babies who are going to be stewed
To provide the Nephalim with their favorite food.”
The wife was asleep as I sipped a nightcap
And wondered,
“Where does he come up with this crap?”
Then Tricky-Dick Hoaxland came onto the line,
To add pseudo-science to back Nuri’s whine:
“I once worked for NASA and Cronkite as well,
Until I told the truth, then they sent me to hell.
They’re trying to silence me, telling their lies,
For
I am the one who knows what’s in the skies.Nibiru is coming, there are faces on Mars!
I got an award from some drunk guy named Lars.
I met him ‘round back by the dumpster one night.
He said it was for my astounding insight.”
Then out in the yard there arose such a clatter,
I put down my drink and I emptied my bladder.
I grabbed a revolver and snuck to the door
Intent to discover the source of the roar.
The moon shining brightly in spite of no snow
Gave the luster of midday to objects below.
My trashcans were scattered, I saw with chagrin,
By a now-steaming Yugo, its front all caved in.
Out staggered a driver, still clutching a purse,
With a mouth like a scar and a voice like a curse.
A bunch of equipment hung over her prow
She said “I’m the world famous Mutated-Cowe.
I was tracking an object way up in the sky
It was extraterrestrial, that’s where they fly!
Can I take your statement?” she said with a wink,
“And then, after that could you give me a drink?
And after the drink I should check in with George…”
I swallowed and fought down my own rising gorge.
An old cassette recorder then hove into view
And a hand held mic circa seventy-two.
“So, tell me, exactly, what you saw, would you say?
A big, black triangle? An Angel? A Gray?
Perhaps its an extraterrestrial sleigh?
And do you mind putting that pistol away?”
Before I could answer, a sound chilled my bones
And out of my bushes leapt one Alex Jones.
“The Mayans were Masons and part of this sport!
Just look at the proof in the Denver Airport!
Al Qaida sends shadow-folks over the border
And it takes directions from the New World Order!
You think that I’m crazy? The whole thing sounds horsey?
But I’ve got proof right here! I obtained it from Corsi!”
He planted himself for a desperate stand.
Then, grasping his megaphone firmly in hand:
“Bohemian Grove! Its all conspiracy!
And ‘twas Winnie-the-Pooh shot John Kennedy!
Folks, we’ve got to wake up, our country’s a wreck!
So do your part now and write me a check!”
“And write me one, too!” piped the Mutated-Cowe,
“Buy subscriptions to EarthFilesDOTorg, do it now!”
I staggered inside and I slumped ‘gainst the wall,
My eyes saw the face of the clock in hall.
Eleven-eleven it flashed with persistence
I started to scream “There’s no coincidence!”
From my house, to the city of angels and caves,
I discovered the portal of fools, shills and slaves.
It’s a magical box from whence madness arises
And crytpo-fascist delusions in various guises.
The Ring master’s a clown, with his bad varnished hair
And a line-up of guests who all feed off despair.
And the meaning was clear as dawn’s light diagnosed:
For a
REAL Merry Christmas,
don’t bother with Coast. **M**
