‘Twas the Night Before Christmas: DT Style

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the garage

Not an engine was turning, not even something vintage;

The rally calendars were hung by the bench vise with care,

In hopes that Kaibeezy soon would be there;

The readers were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of El Caminos danced in their heads;

And CFlo in his ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just torn down a Volvo for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn brown dirt* there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the Sparco to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a lion,

Tore open the shutters and pulled out my iphone.

The moon on the breast of the newly layed asphalt

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature Roadmaster, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and wheezy,

I knew in a moment it must be Kaibeezy.

More rapid than eagles his tippers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, FuelTruck! now, Dascpcu! now, Doctordel! and Andy Liss!

On, K2MysteryCar! on Mrkwong! on, Scot! and Bobinott!

Now, Sean Scott, now, FTB, now RyanM and JB1025,

On TRDsmith, on Rene, on Zach, on William Robinson,

On Tom Minch, on Larry, on Anonymous and ESK!

To the top of the garage! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the DeLorean fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the readers they flew,

With the custom truck bed full of tips, and Kaibeezy too.

And then, in a twinkling, I felt on my lip

The clicking and typing of each little tip.

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,

Down the exhaust pipe Kaibeezy came with a bound.

He was dressed all in Naugahyde, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of tips he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a VW CEO just opening his pack.

His HIDs– how they twinkled! his fogs how merry!

His lines were stainless hoses, his exhaust muffled by a cherry (bomb)!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a Miata,

And the beard of his chin was as beige as a Prius;

The stump of a pipe wrench he held tight in his hand,

And the smoke from a Saab encircled his head like a wreath;

His Pacer had a broad face and a little round hatch,

That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of Crown Victoria shocks.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his key,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to see;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the listings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the exhaust pipe he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a shout-a,

And away they all flew like the rust of an Alfa.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,