A Dudeist Blog New Shit The Night Before Dudeistmas

The Night Before Dudeistmas

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Twas the night before Dudeistmas, when all through the house
Not a beverage was stirring, not even a Caucasian;

The Creedence was put in the tape deck with care,
In hopes that The Dude soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of bowling balls danced in their heads;

And mamma in her sweater, and I drinking my night cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lanes there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature Torino, with some rust coloration,

With a stoned old driver, with a laid back attitude,
I knew in a moment it must be the Dude.

Hating the Fuckin’ eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, WALTER! now, DONNY! now, STRANGER and GARY!
On, MAUDE! on DA FINO! on, BRANDT and ULI!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the Torino full of White Russians, and the Dude too.

And then, in a sparking, I heard on the roof
The hemming and hawing of each little goof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney the Dude came with a pound.

He was dressed in thrifted clothes, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and brew;

A pound of weed he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes — all bloodshot! his demeanor how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth drawn out like a smirk.
And the beard of his chin showed he wasn’t a jerk

The poorly rolled J he held tight in his lips,
And the smoke it encircled his head with each rip;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old hippie,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of how trippy;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the ringers; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his junker, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

You can find the fine Dudeist author of this re-imagining at the Dudeism Discord server by the handle of El Mosherino.

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Hey Dudes. How’s the abiding going? Strikes and gutters? Are you locked in combat with the bear? You know man, things don’t have much meaning when you take us out