Twas the night before Hipstmas, and all through our dwelling,
Not a creature was stirring, not even the corgi we named Tori Spelling.
The fireplace was full of broken amplifiers,
(Since our landlord had barred us from having real fires).
In the cupboard, the homebrew fermented with care,
And some rank, gnarly odor emitted from there.
The guitar was emitting some weird feedback,
Since no one had bothered to pull out the jack.
My housemates were scattered all over the Mission,
While dreams of one-night stands danced in their visions.
I grabbed my half-eaten burrito, poured a fresh shot of Jack,
And settled myself in for a drunken night’s snack.
But right as I bit in, I heard such a clatter,
That I sprang from my seat to see what was the matter.
Who did I find but my housemate, all speckled with vomit,
Splayed out on his vest in the shape of a comet.
My drunk roommate, Maxwell, all by himself
Had boozily crashed into our IKEA shelf —
And what to my horrified eyes did appear
But an explosion of vinyl and vomit and beer.
More rapid than eagles the records did fall,
From the IKEA shelves once affixed to the wall.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
I was smacked by a seven-inch as it fell to the ground.
“Not the vinyl!” moaned Maxwell, still dribbling puke.
“Not the Beach House! The Calloway! The xx! The Kooks!
“Vintage, all vintage,” he screamed in despair.
“Those LPs were expensive — and foreign — and rare!”
While he was lamenting, I heard a sharp groan
Emanate from the fireplace that the guitar amps call home,
When, what to my critical eyes should appear,
But an overweight hipster with an ironic beard!
He was dressed in a Snuggie (facetious, I think).
From behind his square glasses, he gave me a wink.
As I took out my earbuds and pulled out my phone,
I just had to Tweet “Saint Nick is here in my home!”
A bundle of presents he had flung on his back!
And he looked like a homeless man opening his sack.
His eyes — how they twinkled with feelings sardonic!
(And I think his tattoo of Frosty was ironic.)
The stump of a Parliament he held tight in his lips.
He sighed, “Hey, man. I’m not Santa. It’s just an internship.”
He rolled his red eyes, and he took a big toke,
Then he blew in my face and said, “Mind if I smoke?”
Before I could reply with a witty wisecrack,
St. Nick’s intern removed several gifts from the sack.
Since my trust fund was dwindling, I watched on quite eager,
But the size of the haul seemed especially meager.
Only three presents — nothing more, nothing less.
And the size of the packages didn’t impress.
“Is that it?” I asked him, trying not to sound brash.
“Is that all that we get from your magical stash?”
The intern sighed again and said, “Not to be snotty,
But according to Instagram, you’ve been pretty naughty.
You’ve been guzzling whiskey, giving adults attitude,
Spending food stamps on macarons at Whole Foods.
Shopping at vintage stores, running up your mom’s credit,
And spending your nights browsing porno on Reddit.
“I can see from your photo stream you drink more than enough,
And besides, you guys already have lots of stuff.
Come now, do you think that these presents are free?
Go out and do something with that English degree.”
His words hurt me more than I care now to share —
I pushed away the iPad and sat down on my chair.
Yet when St. Nick’s intern saw the tears in my eyes,
His jaded young heart must have increased in size.
“Dude, come on, I was joking. I have one more gift.”
Then he stuck his hand in and gave his bag a sift.
And when his hand emerged, it held an LP
With Japanese lettering I couldn’t quite see.
“What is it?” I mumbled, appraising its condition.
“It’s rare,” said the intern, “a foreign edition,
By a band that’s so good, no one knows who they are,
But they sound like the Kinks kinda mixed with the Cars,
Then mixed with Arcade Fire. It’s hard to explain.”
He thought for a second while scratching his brain.
“Anyway, never mind. Just take my advice.
On eBay, this fetches a pretty good price.”
And before I could snap a picture for my blog,
The grizzled young intern scurried off like a dog.
He sprang toward the fireplace like a stout little pixie
And rode back up the chimney on his magical fixie.
And I swear that I heard, as his fixie took flight,
“Merry Hipstmas, my man. And, like, have a good night.”
Illustrations by Laurent Hrybyk.
