How to steal Christmas from a Who near you

A trib­ute to the grinchi­est grinches.


Christmas is com­ing, it just can’t be stopped With trap­pings and trip­pings and Christmas tree stuff. From Black Fri­day to Eve, shop­ping stores in a frenzy Blast­ing one type of mu­sic for two months too many.

They want who­sists and what­sits, phoneXs and trum­pets. Go­ing into Who-debt as tall as Mount Crumpit. Pro­claim­ing that only they know the rea­son And crush­ing red cof­fee cups through the whole sea­son.

And then come Christmas morn­ing you know what they’ll do They’ll feast like there’s noth­ing but feast­ing for Whos. They’ll fill up their trash bags and garbage can faces Toss­ing pack­ing and dec­o­ra­tions to the curb of all places.

They’ll pound back the nog, the Who prob­lem-drinkers While mak­ing their rel­a­tives un­com­fort­able thinkers. Some will get en­tirely too pas­sive-ag­gres­sive Or keep you in con­ver­sa­tions you’d like a bit less of.

Then they’ll play and they’ll sing, they’ll be down­right an­noy­ing Obliv­i­ous of all the noise, noise, NOISE, they’re em­ploy­ing. They might call me Grinchy, slur, “Your shoes are too tight!” Or make up a heart con­di­tion that isn’t sci­en­tif­i­cally right.

They’ve been ly­ing, spy­ing and spread­ing Fake News Swear­ing the Grinch is nasty—but who stole from whom? It’s time to step up, quit act­ing in er­ror This year we end the reign of Who-ter­ror.

First things are first, we’ll go to the malls Fill them with haz­ardous traps and pit­falls. The Whos can’t buy in to their cap­i­tal­ist greed If they’re all stuck a-snare wait­ing to be freed.

From there we will go by ev­ery Who-house Sneak on to their prop­erty, like a Who-mouse Re­move just one bulb from each light-up dis­play Save both our en­ergy and eyes from the tawdry that way.

Af­ter we punc­ture the blowup San­tas and snow­men, We’ll jimmy a win­dow and bust the fridge open Take ev­ery scrap that isn’t nailed down And send it to food banks all over town. Next the fake trees, we’ll set them alight The flames they will burn fes­tive and bright. The stock­ings we’ll biff into a sack Re­pur­posed as sweaters for all of our cats.

Once we win back our hol­i­day, here’s what we’ll do: We’ll sip on tea made of Who-tears for a mo­ment or two Then we’ll shake off our day­dreams, say sorry, ex­cuse me And get back to our jobs and pre­tend­ing in Who-glee.

Be­cause de­spite all our Grinchy sea­sonal de­pres­sion You re­ally have to an­swer only one ques­tion— Does the way the Whos cel­e­brate ac­tu­ally af­fect you? Nah, you’re prob­a­bly pro­ject­ing, and it’s just not an is­sue.


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