The other day I was feeling a little under the weather, and so I started texting my mom. She worries about me, so I have to warn her if I’m taking a nap. That way, if she calls and I don’t answer, she won’t dial 911. Ah, Mom — causing headaches in my life since 1975.
Anyway, I told her that before I took a nap, I would share with her my new Christmas song lyrics, ones I hoped would reflect our general feelings toward 2020.
Foreheads roasting on an open fire
’Ronavirus nipping at your throws
(Yeah, wash them)
Election doubts being sung by a liar
While Q-tips went way far up his nose
Then I texted her and told her I was going to take a nap because my fever was climbing. But my brain kept plugging along, and five minutes later, I’d improved upon another Christmas song, the Wham! classic “Last Christmas.”
Last Christmas, I gave you my germs
But the very next month, you gave them away
This year, to save me from fear
I’ll stick around someone maskful (That means full of mask, as in wearing a mask)
At this point my mom couldn’t help but let me know that if I have to explain what a made-up word means in a lyric, it kind of ruins the beat. I replied, “Careful, or I’ll visit you maskless.”
My mom told me I might want to take my nap now. But then she got hit by the lyric bug, too. She took on “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” the Bing Crosby version.
It’s beginning to look a lot like lockdown
No Santa and no elves
Take a look in the five and ten
No inventory once again
Not even toilet paper on the shelves
I had to admit it was pretty good. So I shot back with:
I’ll be home for Christmas
You can plan on me
To spite the phlegm
and aid BLM
and demonstrate peacefully
Christmas Eve will find me
Denouncing bigotry
I’ll be home for Christmas
If literally in my dreams
“Literal dreams, meaning actual words,” I said to my mom.
“Again, if you have to explain actual words, there may be a problem,” she said.
“Actual words?” I said. “Or literal words?”
Again she mentioned the benefits of afternoon naps, and then she asked what my fever was at.
To which I responded: “It’s high. As in…”
Angels we have heard on high
Yelling crazy prophecies
One about a man impeached
One about injecting bleach
Glo-
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
We forgot the murder hornets
They did not survive the plot
Glo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh oh oh no RBG
We will not forget you
Before my mom could interrupt with talk of a fever again, I went on with a 2020 version of “Santa Baby”:
Hey Zelensky, just slip a favor under the tree, for me
I’ve been an awful good boy
Hey Zelensky,
Admit it was a perfect phone call
Hey Zelensky, an outer space distraction, of course: Space Force
Then we’ll hit the golf course
Hey Zelensky, don’t ever show an ounce of remorse
At this point, my mom nudged me toward that nap. And If there was such a thing as tucking me in over the phone, my mom did it. I don’t remember the awards ceremony for our Christmas lyric contest, or even signing up for a contest, but I’m pretty sure I crushed it.
May your days be merry and bright, and may 2021 be a little more light.
Brodi Ashton is a New York Times best-selling author who lives in the Salt Lake City area. She’s also an occasional columnist for The Salt Lake Tribune.
