Santa’s least favourite song? “Light My Fire”…

 

Season’s Greetin’s, an’ all sorta stuff like that there:

Tonite is a big nite fer all us youngsters here in Funsville. This is a nite when we go ta bed early, pr’tend ta sleep, an’ wait fer a speshul vizitur ta bring us gifts.

No, it ain’t Sanna Clozz. He shows up on th’ 25th, same as fer th’ rest’a ya. We may be young, but we ain’t so nayeeve that we’re gonna pass up th’ chance ta cash in two times in th’ space’a less’n three weeks. Tonite is Morrison Eve, or, if yer bent on bein’ pedantickull about it, th’ nite’a th’ day b’fore Jim Morrison’s birthday.

As holladays go, it’s lessuva observunts innits own rite than a kick-off ta th’ two-month countdown ta Ray Manzarek’s Birthday. (Click here fer a further explanashun of what that is. Yes, Vurginya, Th’ Doors are that big in Funsville. There’s a entiyure strip mall on th’ edge’a town d’voted ta selling bootleg copies’a outtakes frum th’ album Waiting For The Sun.) Still an’ all, itza good way fer fam’lies ta get together one more time (Uncle Fun sez he hazza hand-dipped Owsley candy cane — whutevur that is — fer anyone who knows whut Doors song that phrase is copped frum), b’fore th’ Crissmus rush b’gins.  

So, here’s whut happens on Morrison Eve. Fer th’ conveeniyunts a’ those’a ya who likes ta see things propurrly spelt, I’ve cut-an’-pasted it frum The Funsville Book of Days.

On Morrison Eve, good children do all their chores and homework, clear away the dishes after dinner, and head straight to bed to say their prayers, hoping to be rewarded for their virtue. They’re shit out of luck as far as that’s concerned, but that’s another story.

Meanwhile, Jim Morrison makes his merry way around the world, in a miniature sleigh pulled by eight tiny groupies. Pausing only at any bar with an extra-long happy hour, he flies from house to house, passing the time by playing chicken with unsuspecting commercial aircraft.  

If you’re very good, and very, very quiet, you may just be able to hear a tell-tale tip-tip-tap on your roof. Do you hear it? Jim Morrison’s sleigh has landed; the tapping is the sound of his groupies teetering on their stiletto heels, as they all regret accepting Jim’s dare to down that extra tequila shooter at the last bar.

What’s that? You say the tapping is at your window?  That can only mean one thing. Jim has fallen off the roof.

It’s alright, though. All good boys and girls know that they should leave their windows open and their doors unlocked on Morrison Eve. It saves on home repairs in the long run.

Just make sure to hang your leather pants on the mantelpiece, so Jim Morrison can fill the pockets with toys, candy, and assorted items of contraband. Or, he may try the pants on, decide they’re a good fit, and take them. Or, he may forget where your house is, and not show up at all. You never really know.

No matter what happens, there’ll be a big surprise waiting for you at dawn the next day. Will it be that pretty dress you’ve always wanted for your favourite doll? Will it be a new engine and extra track for your model railroad? Or will it be Jim Morrison, passed out on your couch? If it is, let him sleep a little longer before calling the police. He’s had a long and busy night.

Well, there ya have it. I’ve gotta leave a li’l sumpin’ out b’fore Jim Morrison arrives (Uncle Fun sez ya can never go wrong with boilermakers), so I’ll leave you a li’l sumpin’ I found in a box’a Mister Kuzzents’ things marked “Never listen to these, or I will mummify you in Saran Wrap, and run you through an industrial book-binder. That means YOU, Sparky”. I don’ think th’ voice you’ll hear when ya click on this link (well — whatcha waitin’ for? Crissmus er sumpin’ ? Click, already) is th’ real-an’-honest Jim Morrison, any more’n I think th’ one at Funsville Children’s Village is. Fer one thing, th’ real Jim Morrison don’t let no-one under th’ age of consent sit on his lap…an’ b’sides, that deal is strickly on a “no boys need apply” basis.   

In keepin’ with th’ spirit of th’ Crissmus an’ Morrison Eve season, hope ya got the world locked up inside a plastic box (there’s a extra Owsley-cane fer anyone who knows whut Doors song that line’s frum).

Sparky