[I have no excuse, except that nothing says “Christmas Tradition” to me like stoned grownups and a bunch of twinkly lights wrapped around some palm trees…
Yeah, whatever, so it’s a cactus. So sue me.]
It was, like, whoooooa… Christmas, and all through So-Cal*
Not a stoner was surfing, neither Local nor Val**;
Our longboards were leaned up against the garage,
Cause we’d totally scarfed on pâté and fromage;
My best dudes were sacked out all biffed in their beds,
While visions of shred-betties*** danced in their heads;
And my chick in her drug rug****, and me in my Uggs,
Had just smoked a bowl of our taste Maui Bud,
When on the canal there arose such a ruckus,
I rolled out our hammock and said, “dude, what the fuck’s this?”
Cross the lawn I rocked steady, still awesomely cas’****
‘Til I’d unlatched the moon gate and sparked up some hash.
The moon on the breast of the tidewater’s flow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to this fat dude below,
He was riding a gondola, toking off a fat spliff
With all these, like, deer hanging out… um… him with.
He totally smiled up at me, sly and quick,
And I was all, like, “Dude, you’re that awesome St. Nick!”
Then he went, “Cha, kid, you’re onto my trip,”
And I was all stoked to be totally hip.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly, like, elf,
That I so laughed my ass off, in spite of myself;
He chucked me this zip-loc of mushrooms, way phat,
And I said, “Dude you are awesome, and rockin’ that hat!”
Then I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he rowed out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”
**People from “The Valley.” Which, as a pal of my sister Elena’s once pointed out, “is kind of like your best friend’s little sister. Hot, flat, and you don’t want to go there.”
*** Chicks who surf.
**** Short for “casual.” Pronounced cazh.