THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS: Clinton Edition

‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house,
Not a Clinton was stirring, not even Bill’s spouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Huma Abedin soon would be there.

The Clintons were cuddled up in separate beds,
While visions of the White House danced in their heads.
Ma Hillary in Depends and Bill in the buff,
And Chelsea downstairs who wondered what was up,

For out on the road there arose such a clatter,
Was it Fight for $15 or a was it Black Lives Matter?
Away to the window, Chelsea mad dashed,
Then opened the shutters and threw up the sash,

The moon on the breast of THAT woman you know?
Secret Service called her Energizer, one of Bill’s hoes.
But what to Chel’s wondering eyes should appear,
A Smart car, a hybrid, drawing so near.

The little old driver so beat down and haggard,
Was that Huma Abedin? Old girl looked so shattered.
Fast as she could she drove up the lane,
Chelsea whistled and shouted and cried out by name:

“Is it Huma now? Barb Boxer? Sanders, Oprah Winfrey?”
“Al Sharpton, Joy Behar, a union boss, Wolf Blitzer?”
“Come up the drive and into our abode,”
“We don’t care for money here, we’re almost dead broke”.

As the attack ads that air among voters duly empowered,
To choose between change and eight years fallen sour,
Up to the house Huma Abedin flew,
Faster than a pundit can claim it’s “fake news”.

And then in the foyer Chelsea heard the real truth:
Mom’s life of pretending had been of no use.
Marine Corps and sniper fire, those stories did resound.
The server, the foundation, they drug poll numbers down.

And forty years of promises that never seemed to add up?
Voters were supposed to be stupid and eat that stuff up!
“How can this be…is this some kind of joke?”
What about the rage and the fear the media had stoked?

Huma was dressed in her favorite hoojab,
This time her role wasn’t to play Baghdad Bob.
A satchel of news was crammed in her sack,
Chelsea opened it up and took a step back.

The vote – the recounts, intimidation so scary,
Riots in the streets and stories they’d buried.
None had been enough to stop the change so desired,
By those that prefer to work rather than dole away life’s hours.

The deplorables had won clearly, Chelsea could see.
How so when mom campaigned with Beyoncé and with Jay Z?
“Huma please Huma please say it’s not so,”
“This is not at all how the election was supposed to go.”

Huma shrugged and turned around to leave,
Then a few words of advice Huma Abedin did entreat.
“Blame Fox News, the Russians, or Director Jim Comey.”
“But remember the blame belongs to one woman only.”

“She’s asleep upstairs in a hospital bed,”
“That woman’s what turned America from deep blue to bright red.”
Chelsea dropped down hard and fell on both knees,
And she whimpered “Huma, tell mom for me?”

Huma stormed out the door and into the night,
And called out to Chelsea, “Girl get a life.”

Image: by Donkey Hotey; https://www.flickr.com/photos/donkeyhotey/23731410293; CC by 2.0

Share if you think this might capture some of what the Clinton’s Christmas could be like this year.

Andrew Allen

About the author, Andrew Allen: Andrew Allen (@aandrewallen) grew up in the American southeast and for more than two decades has worked as an information technoloigies professional in various locations around the globe. A former far-left activist, Allen became a conservative in the late 1990s following a lengthy period spent questioning his own worldview. When not working IT-related issues or traveling, Andrew Allen spends his time discovering new ways to bring the pain by exposing the idiocy of liberals and their ideology. View all articles by Andrew Allen

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