[Nhcoll-l] Its that time of year again...

[John E Simmons]

Hard to believe but this is number 29 for us:

*Borderline Santa*

*(St. Entropy sees what an invisible barrier looks like)*



‘Twas the Night before Christmas. At the museum staff party,

I was mixing the eggnog to make hale those just hearty.

Some strange creature was stirring the brew, with a spark

So that luminous smoke rose aloft in the dark.

(The secret ingredient? I’m sworn not to tell,

But it works as a preservative equally well.)

The curators were curled up on floors, chairs, and shoes,

With visions of Nobels inspired by the booze.

The VPs amassed by the fume hood and ranted

In hopes that their grant apps would…well, be granted.

When, up from my phone, there arose such a clatter,

I hit every button to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew—okay, ambled—

Threw everything open—all signals seemed scrambled.

When, what to my bleary red eyes should appear,

But. Nothing. Just nothing. The vista was clear.

But my phone was still beeping, and I learned, in short order,

That St. Entropy was detained at the border.

For lack of a visa, the Saint had been grounded,

His bag had been seized, his sleigh was impounded.

The reindeer lacked proof of immunization,

And were in quarantine holding of endless duration.

The season was shaping up poorly, no doubt—

No presents, no Santa, and the nog had run out.

The stockings that hung by the chimney with care

Were destined, it seemed, to remain empty and bare.

And those visions of sugarplums in the heads of the staff

Were to be nothing more than faint dreams and chaff.

With a twist of my neck, and a tic ‘neath my eye,

I thought of the only museum trick I could try.

I called every embassy and claimed with impunity

That Santa had total diplomatic immunity.

His bag? That’s a courier pouch with information,

Crammed full with loans for a North Pole installation.

Those reindeer? Protected, and being brought through

For a breeding program in the national zoo.

The protests from ambassador, consul, and official

Soon led to action both quick and judicial—

The detention of Santa was not only untoward

But clearly a violation of international accord.

The embassies changed every Stop sign to Go,

And—for the first time—*I* said “Ho, ho, ho.”

St. Entropy joined us at last, late at night,

Covered with labels and stamps, but all right.

He spoke not a word—not a clean one, at least—

But grabbed all of the 90 proof, and drank it. The beast.

Despite the old Saint feeling aloof and, well, snooty,

He was determined to fulfill holiday custom and duty.

He filled all the stockings with reams of red tape

And found-in-collection things of various shape.

Then, thumbing his nose at protocol and form,

He went to the fume hood, and up it he swarmed.

He leaped to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle

Then let out a sigh and a groan most abyssal.

There were no reindeer, no Donner, no Blitzen--

Every last one of them was AWOL. Just missing.

And I heard him exclaim, as he stomped out of sight, too,

“Merry Christmas? Bah, humbug! They won’t leave the zoo!”



*--John Simmons and Sally Shelton draw the line at practically nothing. *
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