(Or an account of a visit from Tool manager Pete)
Blair MacKenzie Blake
(loosely based on the classic Christmas poem
Major Henry Livingston Jr. [1748-1828]
Some other insomniac/mycophile of that revolutionary Era Vulgari)

'Twas the night before Christmas when all through the pub
Some of the Tool folk had gathered but not just for the grub.
Though hot chips we munched with our Stellas by the round,
Adam with his Green Faery, the bangers to wash down.

The barmaids were busy, those sweet lovely dears,
And when ever we tossed our glasses, pub queen Faline would appear.
Our spirits were bright as the polished door knobs of our second home
As I cosied up to my third draft and blew off the foam.

When that blonde mane with her Great Dane ordered shots of Patron,
Diablo in his sable coat lifted a concerned eye from his bone.
So I salted my tongue and made ready with my lime,
Well… not really, but, hell, it makes for a pretty good rhyme.

The patio was now hazy with smoke from Kat’s sixth Capri,
And Horsehead Jen puffing Turkish Golds made it even harder to see,
When, what to my bloodshot eyes should appear,
Tool manager Pete who just stepped in for some Christmas cheer.

With Trana by his side carrying “The Lord of the Rings” Trivial Pursuit,
In my most sarcastic tone remarked “This ought to be a real hoot!”
But after ordering two pints, Pete whispered jewels into my ear,
And despite the bloke’s British accent, his words were crystal clear.

Now Pitman with his Caprinia in the woolpacks from Kat’s seventh Capri
Couldn’t see my joyful reaction to the release date of the new Tool DVD!
Excited by the long awaited news I just got from the jolly fella,
I drained a second shot of Patron chased with yet another Stella.

As the patrons of the mughouse roared, I looked hither to ye old dart board,
For the soccer match on the tube, STILL not a goal had been scored.
There in the corner a couple of babes - shit, ladder climbers I bemoaned to Sash and Kat,
Hoping to see Scotty’s mom* in her faux leopard-skin hat.

And then above the door I noticed a wisp of mistletoe,
But so did merch-stud Joe, Benny, and Aloke, all quickly petting chick-magnet Diablo.
Unnoticed by the chicks we all were, in the corner Kat and Jen befogged*,
Breathing the toxic drifts, we returned to our amber grog.

“He (me) should eat something, how about a bloody Shepherd’s Pie?”
Not with all those nasty emerald peas, “Hell, I’d rather die.”
But then thinking of glittering Silja with her Icelandic Yule
Feasting on smoked sheep balls that makes those sapphire-eyed goddesses drool…

His eyes averted, Blair proposed another most glorious toast:
Cheers! To Justin and Shelee who just fled the earthquake-plagued coast.
And to MJK in the desert with all his sparkling purple grape,
He’ll be sitting on Arizona Bay when the landscape changes shape.

The German Pilsner arrived with Danny ever late,
Pete shouting to the eternal cymbal-ring: “Over here, Mate!”.
And I now switching to JD, although I (and Camella) know better,
In my head a slurred voice: “Blair, don’t forget to post the X-mas newsletter.”

He raised yet another glass: to Buzz, Mackie, Dale and Maureen,
To Wes and Heather, Robyn and Matt, more ale pub queen Faline!
To Scott and Renee, Brad and Amy, kaRIN and Statik,
And to the hounds and foxes, let us have at it.

He (me) then turned to the board game and said “I’ll be f***ing damned”,
For Trana lost the bet when she didn’t know the address of the Hobbit Sam.
So Pete pulled out his AMEX card instead of our pile of cash
To pay for all the drinks along with Adam’s bangers & mash.

He (me) then staggered home where another shot of the creature was stirred,
Trying to remember the release date, but forgetting what he’d just heard.
Was something about a new Tool DVD to post from my house,
Too drunk, though, to turn on the computer, let alone click the mouse.

* okay, some of it might have been from my Macanudo cigar.



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