Friday, January 3, 1997

Quentin Tarantino's "The Knife Before Christmas"

T'was the fucking night before X'mas
As I stalked through the house
Not a victim was stirring
(Each soon dead as a louse!)
Their stockings were hung by the chimney
Who cares?
Fuck their mythical hopes!
They were gonna get theirs...

My rich in-laws were nestled,
All smug in their beds
Dreams of shit they won't see
Danced in their heads
Bitch wife in her nightie
Me in PJs catblack
All ready for mayhem
With gun, knife or blackjack
When out on the lawn
There arose such a noise
I near pissed my pants
What the fuck -- some choirboy?
I leapt to the window, peeked out for a glance
What I saw -- not a caroler, nor ho with a trick
But my idiot black partner, dressed up like St. Nick
Complete with eight reindeer and sleigh
What a dick!

The moon seemed to flash like a knife on the snow
As he puffed on his crackpipe and lurched to and fro
Through the snow! To the trellis!
Like a rhino in heat
That nigger woke up everyone on the street
Time to move, and I did
As he worked down the chimney
All slicken'd with grease
I slit up Ms. Bitch and her kin
Just like fat Xmas geese
And when, from the fireplace, that fat fuck did appear
I capped him
Four shots in the face
And then two in the rear

Now sirens! Now bleeding! Now understand!
No time to gloat on my fucking great plan
From right hand to left, I shifted the knife
Plunged it in my own shoulder, but I didn't cry
But still pulled it out -- to Saint Creep's clenching hand!
Homeboy heard me exclaim
As he watched his life bleed...
"Merry Christmas, now die.
Here comes the police."

He did, and they did, and soon I was cozy
In my hospital bed, as warm as a pussy
While visions of loot danced inside my sick head
I was acting torn up -- "Aww, my fucking family was dead!"
All the chicks that I knew felt so sorry for me
As I cried on the outside, inside brimming with glee
As I thanked God for Xmas
And double indemnity

And I said to myself
Having lived through this riot
My next fucking partner
Had better be quiet

-- Dewey Grosshart, Marty Fugate (aka "Jack Getz")

Originally published, in extremely, ridiculously, gutlessly expurgated form, in The Sarasota Arts Review.

Bulk of the credit goes to "Dewey Grosshart" -- I mostly cleaned up the scan to make it fit the rhyme scheme.

PS: It should go without saying but, uh, duh, the "N-word" is part of the satire. See, uh, Quentin Tarantino uses the N-word a lot and, uh. You shouldn't say bad words like that.

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