Reindeer Valentino
Dec. 23rd, 2010 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thanateMerry Christmas to all those who are anxiously awaiting the end of the season so that it's safe to go to the grocery store without getting horrible songs stuck in your head. (This was written in early November after being assaulted by a particularly poorly sung version while in a starbucks for a write-in.)
Also of note: the same words, to a lovely tune. Safe for holiday-music haters, at least for the novelty value, and you can read about it before clicking play if you don't trust me.
Rudolph
It was a lovely early November day, at least up until Harriet came storming into the lab carrying her purse and a large handgun.
“Charles, you’ve got to let me borrow the time machine!”
“What is it now?” asked Chrissy, looking up from her calculations on where they’d gone wrong with Mauritius this time; the dodos were back, but three or four other species of bird hadn’t been seen since the 1820s, and the rat infestation was terrible.
“I’ll kill the bastard, Chrissy! You know you’ve always wanted to— his name was Robert May, and he wrote the poem for Montgomery Ward of all places before his brother-in-law turned it into a song— I just wiki’d it.”
Chrissy blinked at her for a moment before the light dawned. “They’ve started playing Christmas music in the coffee shops again,” she explained to Charles, who had stopped mid-motion and was regarding Harriet with his hands still holding the sugar canister half-tipped over his coffee cup.
“I see. What is it this year, Silver Bells or Holly Jolly Christmas? I admit I wouldn’t mind much losing the latter, but I think the gun is a bit extreme.” He set the sugar down and reached for a stir stick.
“Rudolph,” said Harriet with great distain, slamming the gun down on an empty bench, which made Chrissy wince. “Are you going to let me use the machine or not?”
“Not if you’re going to take a handgun through it with the express intention of killing someone,” Charles told her calmly. “Everyone else has to put up with these things, you know.”
“I was only going to threaten him with it,” Harriet said crossly.
Jessica stuck her head out of the adjoining lab, a specimen case in her hand. “What’re y’all yelling about this time?”
“Harriet’s trying to go after carol-writers again,” Chrissy told her.
Jessica laughed. “Never give up, do you, Harri?”
Harriet made a face, “I don’t mind the carols. It’s those stupid after-market songs that drive me up a wall. Especially when the seventeenth cover new for this year has to take what wasn’t a good song in the first place and make it sound like they can’t figure out what the tune is. As if we didn’t all know by now...”
Charles coughed. “You do know that if it hadn’t been that one, it would be something else, don’t you? And the side-effects are so unpredictable.”
“I thought you were trying to make the world a better place,” argued Harriet mutinously, but she was beginning to calm down.
A quarter of an hour later, he’d finally managed to get rid of her, and Chrissy shut the gun into one of the lockers at the back. She stopped by Charles’ workstation on her way back to her desk, and happened to glance over his shoulder at the monitor. He was pulling up bank histories through the depression.
“What’s that for?” she asked, curious.
“Oh, a little experiment,” said Charles, smiling to himself. “I’ve never been a fan of needless violence, but I do understand how Harriet feels about that song. And it occurred to me that if someone had approached this Mr. Mays and made it worth his while, then perhaps he wouldn’t have been working for Montgomery Ward when they wanted a new Christmas poem. Do you think it’s worth a try?”
“You’ll only get something worse, you know,” Chrissy told him, “but I suppose it’s not likely to kill off any more species of bird, at least.”
Charles just smiled and noted down a few dates and numbers.
A week later, Harriet came storming into the lab, complaining about the fifteenth time “All the Elves and Reindeer” had come on the radio that day. Charles just smiled, and told her that he thought it had a rather catchy tune. As she slammed the door behind her in disgust, he turned back to his computer, whistling.
Also of note: the same words, to a lovely tune. Safe for holiday-music haters, at least for the novelty value, and you can read about it before clicking play if you don't trust me.
Rudolph
It was a lovely early November day, at least up until Harriet came storming into the lab carrying her purse and a large handgun.
“Charles, you’ve got to let me borrow the time machine!”
“What is it now?” asked Chrissy, looking up from her calculations on where they’d gone wrong with Mauritius this time; the dodos were back, but three or four other species of bird hadn’t been seen since the 1820s, and the rat infestation was terrible.
“I’ll kill the bastard, Chrissy! You know you’ve always wanted to— his name was Robert May, and he wrote the poem for Montgomery Ward of all places before his brother-in-law turned it into a song— I just wiki’d it.”
Chrissy blinked at her for a moment before the light dawned. “They’ve started playing Christmas music in the coffee shops again,” she explained to Charles, who had stopped mid-motion and was regarding Harriet with his hands still holding the sugar canister half-tipped over his coffee cup.
“I see. What is it this year, Silver Bells or Holly Jolly Christmas? I admit I wouldn’t mind much losing the latter, but I think the gun is a bit extreme.” He set the sugar down and reached for a stir stick.
“Rudolph,” said Harriet with great distain, slamming the gun down on an empty bench, which made Chrissy wince. “Are you going to let me use the machine or not?”
“Not if you’re going to take a handgun through it with the express intention of killing someone,” Charles told her calmly. “Everyone else has to put up with these things, you know.”
“I was only going to threaten him with it,” Harriet said crossly.
Jessica stuck her head out of the adjoining lab, a specimen case in her hand. “What’re y’all yelling about this time?”
“Harriet’s trying to go after carol-writers again,” Chrissy told her.
Jessica laughed. “Never give up, do you, Harri?”
Harriet made a face, “I don’t mind the carols. It’s those stupid after-market songs that drive me up a wall. Especially when the seventeenth cover new for this year has to take what wasn’t a good song in the first place and make it sound like they can’t figure out what the tune is. As if we didn’t all know by now...”
Charles coughed. “You do know that if it hadn’t been that one, it would be something else, don’t you? And the side-effects are so unpredictable.”
“I thought you were trying to make the world a better place,” argued Harriet mutinously, but she was beginning to calm down.
A quarter of an hour later, he’d finally managed to get rid of her, and Chrissy shut the gun into one of the lockers at the back. She stopped by Charles’ workstation on her way back to her desk, and happened to glance over his shoulder at the monitor. He was pulling up bank histories through the depression.
“What’s that for?” she asked, curious.
“Oh, a little experiment,” said Charles, smiling to himself. “I’ve never been a fan of needless violence, but I do understand how Harriet feels about that song. And it occurred to me that if someone had approached this Mr. Mays and made it worth his while, then perhaps he wouldn’t have been working for Montgomery Ward when they wanted a new Christmas poem. Do you think it’s worth a try?”
“You’ll only get something worse, you know,” Chrissy told him, “but I suppose it’s not likely to kill off any more species of bird, at least.”
Charles just smiled and noted down a few dates and numbers.
A week later, Harriet came storming into the lab, complaining about the fifteenth time “All the Elves and Reindeer” had come on the radio that day. Charles just smiled, and told her that he thought it had a rather catchy tune. As she slammed the door behind her in disgust, he turned back to his computer, whistling.