'Twas The Night Before Witmas

'Twas the night before Witmas, when all through the web
Not a story was stirring, no drunken celebs.

The snark and the smarm no longer prepared,

For some young dumb moron with idiocy to share.

The stories lie dormant, all snug in their sites,

While knowing that Wit could wait for a night.

And my Macbook was closed, and I in my bed,

Giving no fucks that "Whatshisname's" dead.

When out in the net, stupidity did rear,
I rose from my slumber, for trouble was near.

Away to my keyboard I flew like a bird,
For I knew it was time for wit to be heard.

When there on my screen, there appeared such a sight, 

Of satire so butchered, t'would give Twain a fright.

And out from the crap, a shape did appear.
'Twas an apple so rotten that it brought me to tears.

It jumped and it joked and it tried it's very best,
But no one around did it so impress.

Yet continued it did, with its same tired bit,
Gleefully conjuring up some of this shit:

"Now, poop jokes! Now, drug jokes with high students famished!
On chancellor's vomitting, and Black Friday mammoths!

To our unnoticed Twitter! To our shit Facebook wall!
Poop jokes, poop jokes, poop jokes for all!"

As bathroom jokes come, these ones were quite crude,
So bad and so frivolous they darkened my mood.

I typed and I typed with all of my might,
In an effort to send these dumb jokes out of sight.

But try as I would, my blog posts afire,
The apple did roll, ignoring the mire.
However dumb and how banal their articles may be,
They pressed on and they did so with merciless glee.

The apple got closer and I saw its true form,
When out from its top, there emerged a great worm.
The worm did squirm while it enjoyed eating turds,
All the while thinking, "That's the best joke they've heard!"

With every new bad bit of humor it wrote,
I threw up my hands with despair and lost hope.
Oscar would certainly be quite ashamed,
And no doubt right now turing over in his grave.

Even as I stared into the abyss of this fruit,
I knew that my fight was not helpless, not moot.
So continued I did on my crusade for good,
For this humor so bad had stayed longer than it should.

I found it within me, the power of wit,
To vanquish these foes and stop this dumb shit.
The apple did roar, its power depleted,
But I knew that my task was not yet completed.

I informed the masses of this humor so rot,
That calling it satire should be put to a stop.
My friends they did nod in somber approval,
This fruit, they agreed, was in need of removal.

But just as we thought we had beaten our foes,
From the ashes of war, the apple arose.
It spoke in a whisper, just loud enough to say,
"We'll be back, motherfuckers. We'll be back Christmas Day."