Author: Steve Cavers

T’was the night before Christmas, when all through the igloo

Not a creature was stirring, not even an emu;

The rabbits were strung by the bonfire with care,

In hopes that Bonhomme would prefer to eat hare;

The children were fearful and hid in their beds,

While little brown lemurs did jigs on their heads;

Anne Murray in her parka, and Jean in his cap,

Set up in the woods a great beaver trap,

When out on the snow there arose such a clatter,

I threw off the lemurs and watched them all scatter.

Away out the doorway I flew like a flash,

Expecting the Mounties to search for my stash.

The moon on the breast of the great spotted bird

Made the drunken old emu appear quite absurd.

When, what to my crusty red eyes should appear,

But William Shatner, and drinking a beer.

With a little smoked salmon, and poutine-on-a-stick,

I knew in a moment that Bill would be sick.

More eager than beavers his carousers they came,

And he belched, and he spewed, but they came all the same;

“Rex Murphy! Pete Mansbridge! now, Mesley, you vixen!

Come on, you Canucks! Come see what I’m fixin’!

To the top of the igloo! The top of the home!

No oolican, Mansbridge! Don’t polish your dome!”

As snow drifts within an arctic storm fly,

When they meet with an inukshuk, mount to the sky.

So onto the igloo the carousers they flew,

While the Dougs they emerged from eating moose stew.

And then, after tinkling, I heard on the roof,

The Tragically Hip, all acting the goof.

As they struck up the band, and tested the sound,

Down the igloo slid Shatner, all jiggly and round.

He was dressed like the Captain, from his head to his shoe,

And kept on insisting that “I’m Canadian too!”;

After years on the bridge when the Klingons attack,

He moaned of Kirk’s death, with the bridge on his back.

His eyes — how they reddened! his makeup how smudgy!

He’d had so much Molson’s, he’d grown oh so pudgy!

The drool on his mouth froze hard in the snow,

It appeared his sobriety had started to go;

Then beavers appoached us, all baring their teeth,

And lemurs avoided being squished underneath;

To prove his Canuck-ness, Bill showed them his belly

He’d painted with maples leaves seen on the telly.

It was chubby and plump, a right jolly old gut,

And they quailed when they saw it, and pulled his shirt shut;

And shutting their eyes and a holding back vomit,

The beavers turned tail and fled like a comet;

Bill spoke not a word, but went straight to the stage,

And stepped up to the mic; and gave a look that was sage;

And sawing the air with hands as he started,

And lifting his voice, his talent departed;

He bellowed out loud, and the crowd gave a whistle,

And to him they flew like a misguided missile.

But I heard him exclaim to the townsfolk arcadian,

“Happy Christmas to all, and I… AM… CANADIAN!”

All’s well that ends well, as they say. Our runaway bird situation resolved itself this morning when Bill Shatner made a final attempt to seize the microphone while cleverly disguised as a spotted snow emu.

Our snow emu was immediately intrigued, and in the shade of the giant Christmas Tree, it made… er… romantic advances. Then dropped dead of shock on discovery of the gallant captain under the feathered disguise. Bill was devastated. It was the closest he’d come to “third base” in years.

With that, we dragged the emu directly to the feast igloo, where Carlo Rota plucked and dressed the bird, then stuffed it with open beer cans. Bill looked on enviously, muttering, “I… am… Canadian… too. I… am… Canadian. Spock! Do… something.”

This afternoon the villagefolk and their children will converge on the feast igloo to festoon it with streamers and balloons. Well… strips of rabbit hide and inflated seal bladders, actually. But they impart a festive feeling, nonetheless. Tonight, we’ll pass around the Molson’s and listen to Bob and Doug (the other ones) sing the Twelve Days of Christmas until the wee hours.

And tomorrow… tomorrow Christmas Eve is finally here.

In size, Canada’s population is less than that of certain small islands in the South Pacific. What this means is that everyone knows everyone else — like a small town, but one that straddles the entire continent.

So I talked to Doug about the emu problem, who spoke to the other Doug, who dropped a word to the mayor, who in turn spoke with his twin brother the premier, who pulled some strings to drop a note to the groundskeeper on Parliament Hill, who in turn notified the prime minister of the threat to Christmas Eve. Without delay, Jean called up the entire Canadian Armed Forces to help us in our time of need.

This morning, when their dogsled arrived at the village, all three of them swung into action, combing the streets one-by-one, stopping only for an hour or two at the pub before resuming their anti-emu campaign. No keg was left unturned.

Around the village they stalked the renegade bird, from one side to the other and back again. They worked like a well oiled machine, running this way and that, with shouts of, “It’s over here, eh!” and “Aw geez, ya hosers!”

I could tell they were becoming wearied when they started referring to their leader as “the ossifer” or, worse, “the left-tenant”. When they collapsed, presumably from exhaustion, we gave them beds with a bucket beside each, as they were feeling a little ill.

On another note, the Mounties caught Shatner trying to sneak up to the microphone again. This time he was disguised as a simple wandering minstrel, seeking shelter and a stage from which he could recite I Am Canadian in return for a hot meal.