A Crispness Story

Boz stood in the den looking around. He wanted the placement of the first Real World ... Blogger Style Christmas tree to be perfect and from where he stood the perfect place just happened to be where Sandra and Dvl kept their suspension harnesses and restraints. Boz knew this would be a touchy subject to deal with. Then it came to him: he could hang the devices on (and later, if the ladies wanted it, from) the tree! They would be festive and accessible. Weren't cat-o-nines better than candy canes? Boz thought so. Gloating (as usual) over his own cleverness, Boz decked the tree in leather, chrome, and rubber, trimmed it with handcuffs and paddles from his own personal stash. He discovered that bright red ball gags made cheerful ornaments (reminiscent of Rudolph and all that), and that cleverly festooned bullwhips were as good (if not better) than tinsel. As a final stroke, Boz placed a glowing phallus on the tippy tip top of the tree. Then he plugged it in. The whole tree quivered, it shook, it dropped its baby soft needles all over the carpet. The vibrator's pulsations were so powerful that soon the entire tree was balder than a bimbo with a brazilian, utterly defoliated!
"O no! " thought Boz, "I have ruined Christmas."
In his moment of deepest despair Boz heard carolers.
He perked up and wiped the tears from his eyes.
There they were, the rest of the house, hand in hand, singing Good King Wenceslas

Good King Wenceslas looked out on the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel.

“Hither, page, and stand by me, if you know it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire, he lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain,
Right against the forest fence, by Saint Agnes’ fountain.”
“Bring me food and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither,
You and I will see him dine, when we bear them thither.”
Page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together,
Through the cold wind’s wild lament and the bitter weather.

“Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger,
Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer.”
“Mark my footsteps, my good page, tread now in them boldly,
You shall find the winter’s rage freeze your blood less coldly.”

In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing,
You who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing.


"Damn," thought Boz, "Someone actually knows the lyrics to that song?"