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Merry Chemistristmas

December 18, 2009

The year was 1996. I was 16 or something. I looked more or less exactly the same as I do now. In mid-December, my grade 12 chemistry teacher offered three bonus points (three out of how many? A hundred? Five hundred? Who knows) to anyone who wrote a chemistry-themed Christmas poem and brought it to class. Around this time of year I like to reread the ridiculous and totally inappropriate composition below in a nostalgic manner and have a merry holiday chuckle.

(For what it’s worth, I believe I did get the three meaningless bonus points.)

It’s now the perfect time of year to think back and remember
The gifts I gave to Santa Claus for Christmas last December.
The swine had given me pathetic presents every year,
But now his fun was over, for revenge was drawing near.

My family was in bed, but I was up and wide awake:
I had a complicated Christmas crime to undertake.
So, while my mom and dad were sleeping peacefully in bed
They weren’t aware that in a while the Fat Man would be dead.

He landed on the driveway and he opened up the door.
My first gift for the jerk—a pail of H2SO4—
Came down on top of Santa’s head and ate away his hat.
(Too bad he had no sodium bicarbonate for that.)

He wiped the excess 18-molar acid off himself,
And with a smile upon his face, the happy, jolly elf
Stepped through the doorway with a sack of crappy gifts for me.
I said, “You’re giblets, Santa.” He replied, “Oh, yeah? We’ll see.”

I tripped him with some copper wire and on his face he fell.
I thought he was unconscious, but I really couldn’t tell.
I ran out to the kitchen, filled a glass with H2O,
And as I dripped it on his face, he mumbled, “Ho ho ho.”

I smiled with fake sincerity and helped him to his feet,
And Santa said, “I must admit, you got me—I’ve been beat.
I’ll do my best to put much better gifts beneath the tree.
No Erlenmeyer flasks and no more safety specs from me.”

I thanked him fake-politely as he flopped into a chair.
“You know,” I said, “I’m sorry, sir—that really wasn’t fair.”
I offered him a cookie, which he took with grateful thanks.
He thought that I was finished with my cruel, sadistic pranks.

I wasn’t, though, and in a minute poor old Santa died.
I’d filled that cookie dough with several cups of cyanide.
I wondered, as the toxic substance headed for his brain,
What’s the chemical equation for excruciating pain?

One Comment leave one →
  1. December 18, 2009 11:58 pm


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