I'm trapped in a TV Christmas special, set
In a flurried airport. Grounded jet.
I bored
to find it full of living 'toons--cels, plush puppets,
Digitals, claymation. Sigh! No Jessica Rabbits.
A Green Man! Well, Cactus (luckily, few spines,
Given our Xmas jam). But he prickles with whines.
"Jets hurt
the ozone." In his first-class seat! Jade skin
proves his yuppocrisy: like me, a dippy Green.
At last his neighbor, a reindeer puppet clear-
ly from the Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer
Special jabs
a hoof at Cactus Boy and (organ)pipes grim
ly and (four)pointedly: "I'm NOT with HIM."
"Yeah, cactus and rein don't mix!" snickers the
couple across. He's bony pin(red)stripes; she,
dusky verdigris:
Uncle Digital Sam and Lady Liberty.
Still more Yule stars spangle economy
and coach--a redolent Christmas tree alive,
and a Santa who'd pass for a man-with-pillow
til he billows
that belly round. Even mellow old Burl Ives
ne'er bulged so blimpily (nor bellowed).
The deer's a buck, despite that high
anime voice. Too bad the guy's
no doe;
I'm horny too. I'd love to try
to join the Rudolph Mile High
Club. I wanted Rudolf's doe for years;
big-eyed Feleen was hot! (If you're a deer-
vert like me.)
But the buck's not queer. Oh
well. The fuck stops here.
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Now I'm in the cockpit. Our liner's captain and
his daughter, eleven-yeared, clever-eyed,
wren-
small,
argue yet again o'er her myriad fly-
ing hours. "I cruised your jumbo! Ready to try
a full flight." Says Dad, "One more year."
Uneasily he adds, "Now don't hijack my plane
AGAIN!"
But hol-
iday scriptwriters love a preach--make her commandeer
us Santily through the present sky. She flies sure
handed to our next port. But cactus turbulence! He
tries to counterjack. Greens are vigilantes (says TV)
who'll sleigh
us all--
damn Terrarists! (On air or in, Blather Knows Best.)
Only when we victims show that ole Christ Mess
Spirit -- soul, clap your plastic hooves
and falsetto sing, and louder sing
"We believe
in Federal
Aviation Fairies! Come all ye Federal A-
viation Fairies, condense upon our wings!"...
doth our guardian chorus flap us downy safe unto
Regulatory Bosom. Wren-girl will wise Clause obey:
Fatter
Knows Best.
My dream wants a Bester script. So does my awake--
Pigeonholed acrypt, exhibit in the moralizoo!
Though as I groggenwake, I concede it's true
the nightmare-gods forbore. I might have had
to dream
on through
all those singing ghoulish Yulish ad
salesbreaks, too.
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