For a number of years now we have kept an eye on Santa as he travels round the world, thanks to NORAD.
Keep an eye on him yourself:
A Modelling Photographic ‘Night Before Christmas’
Twas the night before Christmas when all through the site
Not a creature was stirring and noone to fight.
The pictures were posted on profiles with care,
In hopes that the bookings soon would be there.
The togs were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of TF danced in their heads.
And models in their underwear, some even nude,
Were posting new pictures, some rather rude.
When out on the forum there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to my computer I flew like a flash,
Opened the browser and refreshed the cache.
The posting was new and fresh on the thread,
And what I was reading filled me with dread.
With fear that cut to the depths of my soul,
I saw a new message from the internet troll.
“Now chaperone, now no-show, now GWC!
On part paid, full paid and TFCD!
Canon and Nikon and some other kind
Are you a perv or are you just blind?”
As replies filled the site with meaningless junk,
The mods came online and got in a funk.
The threads were locked, the defences were manned,
And before I could post, the troll he was banned.
He sprang to his keyboard and went to reply,
and they drove him away before he could try.
But I heard him exclaim, as he logged off the site,
“Bah Humbug to all, and to all a bad night”
Thanks to Sean for posting this.
Biker’s Night Before Christmas
The Biker’s Night Before Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the pad,
There was nada happenin’, now that’s pretty bad.
The woodstove was hung up in that stocking routine,
In hopes that the Fat Boy would soon make the scene.
With our stomachs packed with tacos and beer,
My girl and I crashed on the couch for some cheer.
When out in the yard there arose such a racket,
I ran for the door and pulled on my jacket.
I saw a large bro’ on a ’56 Pan
Wearin’ black leathers, a cap, and boots (cool biker, man).
He hauled up the bars on that bikeful of sacks,
And that Pan hit the roof like it was running on tracks.
I couldn’t help gawking, the old guy had class.
But I had to go in — I was freezing my ass.
Down through the stovepipe he fell with a crash,
And out of the stove he came dragging his stash.
With a smile and some glee he passed out the loot,
A new jacket for her and some parts for my scoot.
He patted her fanny and shook my right hand,
Spun on his heel and up the stovepipe he ran.
From up on the roof came a great deal of thunder,
As that massive V-twin ripped the silence asunder.
With beard in the wind, he roared off in the night,
Shouting, “Have a cool Yule, and to all a good ride!”