this is the christmas story that my father used to read to my brothers, sisters, and i, when we were kids, so that we would remember our polish heritage (well, not really, mostly because it was funny). i found it in a folder that i kept of childhood memories and stuff and i clearly remember this being printed out on a dot-matrix printer from the family's ibm pc junior… i was gonna retype it in this post, but thought the internet would have a copy of it and found what looks to be the original rendition of the polish spoof by Raymond Odrowaz-Sypniewski.

so, i had to do a bunch of typing and here is what i grew up with:

'Twas the night before Christmas in my Polish house
I creep down the stairs, quick like a mouse.
The rest of my family were asleep in their beds,
While visions of duck soup ran thru their heads.

The work shoes were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Stasiu would not steal a pair.
While over in the corner is so nice to see,
Kielbasa and cabbages hung from the tree.

Then there's this big bang, the house starts to shudder,
Some nut lands on the roof and breaks the rain gutter.
He comes down the chimney, swears cause it's tight,
I hide behind beer cases, way out of sight.

He lands in the fireplace, scorching his hair,
On the busted up orange crate still burning there.
He climbs out, and I get a good look,
He's just like the picture in my Polish book.

He's got vodka glazed eyes and gut like a bubble,
A five day old beard, and there's soot in the stubble.
His clothing is odd and all covered with dirt,
But finally I see, it's an old bowling shirt.

But he won't catch cold, Polish Stanly Clause,
Cause he's wearing hiss rubbers on feet wrapped in gauze.
From sparks in his drawers, he goes into a dance,
And burns a big hole in the seat of his pants.

I know this is santa, I'll bet without fear,
'Cause he heads for the kitchen and opens a beer.
He whips thru a six pack, then turns to his work.
With that old sattler's bag, he's a funny old jerk.

Now under the Christmas tree he starts to set,
The most beautiful presents a Pollack can get.
There's a new mushroom basket and a shovel for brother,
A bright red bubushka and a pick axe for mother.

Six quarts of whisky to make papa gay,
There's gonna be trouble in our house today.
For the littlest one, I know he ain't missed her,
Cause I see pretty things he's left for my sister.

And now she'll be happy through winter and summer,
With these little wrenches, she can play plumber.
Then my eye brighten up and my heart fills with glee,
When I see what Saint Stasiu is leaving for me.

There's a sixteen pound sledge, that's my favorite tool,
So I can work hard when I flunk out of school.
Then he drinks a few more beers and gives a big grin,
As he pulls out his shirt tail and whps off his chin.

There's beer suds all over his his beard and his nose,
and giving one belch, up the chimney he rose.
I must see him leave, so I rush on outside,
And I look toward the roof while a bush helps me hide.

And what do I see as I peer thru the twigs,
But an old wooden garbage cart pulled by eight pigs.
"On Stella, on Stanley, on Wally and Joe,
And all of youse pigs whose names I don't know."

Fly over the junk yard and turn to the right,
Let's visit the people before I get tight.
Then I heard him say as he flew over me,
"I'm the world's only Pollock that gives things for free."

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