‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the land
Big sport stars were screaming with denial and demand.
Give me ten, no twenty, no ninety-eight million,
Cried Manny Ramirez. And make it gold bullion!
Why not, thought the Yankees as they checked their checkbook.
He’s fat and he’s slow but we’ll sell shirts with that look.
Coach Rod Marinelli prayed to heaven above
Please heavenly father, please give me some love.
Deliver those Packers to us hurt, sore and lame
And let my poor Lions win just one fucking game!
Down in Ole Miss coach Andy Kennedy swore
He didn’t do it, he was framed, he’s honest to the core.
Who do you believe? he cried from the bar,
Me or this driver, this dumb dickhead with a car?
The Phillies wrote letters to their friend Santa Clause.
For though they were champions and had loved the applause,
They knew well that the city of brotherly love
Was chock full of assholes who they’d soon tire of.
Commissioners of leagues called up the team owners.
Look at your payroll. Have you hired, they asked, stoners?
Now Plaxico! Now Pac Man! Now Avery and Vick!
On Starbury! On Bonds! On Clemens that prick!
Sure, said the owners, those wankers make trouble.
But explain that Pitt touchdown! Your refs they see double!
And don’t think for one second that we are forgetting
About your boy Donaghy. That’s right, the betting.
Meanwhile the stud Tiger looked back on the year,
With a busted up leg he made the gallery cheer.
He wins loads of money but never grows snotty
And when darkness falls taps that fine Swedish hottie!
The Celtics celebrated with eggnog and rum
But the happiest of all were the girls they’d brung.
From photos of Bird, McHale and Parish they knew
They all were quite fortunate for the men that they blew.
And not too far away Bruins long forgotten
Were making a comeback, no longer downtrodden.
They ordered a feast, a big turkey with trimmings,
But come Stanley Cup time, they won’t beat the Red Wings.
Out West, in Pasadena, they prepped the parade
But most Bowl games are shit, thanks BCS charade.
Look around the country, at least six teams are sweet.
But not even half will get a chance to compete.
Michael Phelps trimmed his tree with gold medals times eight
And thought of hot chics he was now able to date.
It’s funny how fame, he sat and thought to himself,
Makes a ‘ho think I’m hot with the face of an elf.
Now some will believe, but I’m sure most will deny
The wonderful vision that swept ‘cross my mind’s eye
Of stadiums filled in every single last town.
It wouldn’t be too hard, drop the ticket price down!
No more vacant lower bowls, no empty box seats,
Just bustling arenas watching athletic feats.
Is it really too much to ask these fat bourgeoisie
Not to price out the fans for another Lamborghini?
You ask for too much, cried Saint Nick from his sleigh flight,
But here’s Halle Berry—Merry Christmas & good night!