- Joined
- Jun 23, 2020
- Messages
- 1,757
- Reaction Points
- 7,031
- Location
- Butler, Pennsylvania
- Current Ride
- 2020 6.7 F250 Super Duty Tremor Lariat Ultimate BAP
- Current Ride #2
- 2022 KTM 500 EXC-F Six Days
Hello Tremor Family,
With Christmas quickly approaching, I figured it was time to hopefully give everyone a little laugh, because it’s been a pretty stressful year and everyone deserves to smile once in a while.
I’m sure the majority of you are familiar with the Christmas poem that begins “‘Twas the night before Christmas,” but I’m guessing that some of you aren’t aware of the actual title. It’s actually called A Visit from St. Nicholas, and was written by Clement Clark Morre. Below is my adaptation of his poem and I hope it’s seen more as an homage, and less as an abomination of a classic. I guess what I’m saying is that I hope the poor guy isn’t turning in his grave after knowing that this will be somewhere online for a long time.
Anyway, here’s my early Christmas gift to all of my Tremor forum friends and family. Merry Christmas all!
A Visit From St. Tremorlas
‘Twas the night before Christmas, I’m awake in my house;
The computer was whirring, with every click of my mouse;
The tools were all lined, in my toolbox with care;
In hopes that St. Tremorlas soon would be there;
The kids were now sleeping, all snug in their beds;
While visions of Tremor rides danced in their heads;
And Mom in her Forum hoodie, our pup in her lap;
Was exhausted from wrapping and had stopped for a nap;
When out on the road there arose such a clatter;
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I ran in a hurry,
Peeked past the curtains, and tried not to worry.
The moon shining bright on the new-fallen snow,
Gave the same view as midday to objects below,
When what to my dumbfounded eyes did appear,
But a Rapid Red Tremor, with a trailer at rear;
So bright and so shiny, lights strung up on them;
I knew in a moment, it must be St. Trem!
Faster than ‘Stangs help came from the one ton,
The driver honked, and shouted, calling out to each one:
"Now, Ranger! Now, Transit! Now, Bronco and Fairlane!
On, Falcon! on, Focus!, Ranchero and Parklane!
Now get onto that porch! Climb over that wall!
Now dash away! Stash away! Then dash away all!"
Like snowflakes that dance in the wind as they fly,
When they meet with an updraft, and mount to the sky;
To the neighborhood houses those helpers they rose,
With their arms full of mods, and the tools that they chose.
And then, in a heartbeat, I heard in my house,
The quiet pitter-patter of steps, like a mouse.
I scratched at my head, then began to search around;
When into the room came St. Tremorlas with a bound.
He was dressed all in Ford gear, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all sullied with black diesel soot;
A bundle of goodies he had flung on his back,
And from out of the top poked a BuiltRight Bed Rack!
His eyes—pierced like knife point! His face, oh how hairy!
A chain stretched from his belt; to the wallet that he carry.
From the look on his face it was beginning to show,
That his time was running thin, and he needed to go;
A burnt out short stogie clenched tight in his teeth,
And brown juice from some Red Man, dribbled down underneath;
He had a weathered old face and a truck driver’s belly;
He was filthy and greasy, and honestly, smelly.
His muscles they flexed, when he reached to the shelf,
And placed an ARB dual kit, I could in-stall myself!
With a creak of his back and the squeak of a fart;
Soon, I knew, it was his time to depart;
He said not a thing, but reached into his sack,
And laid down more truck mods; then spun with a crack;
Then there he was stretching, to reach for the door;
But he stumbled and bumbled; and dropped toward the floor,
Then he shot across the yard, without leaving a track,
And appeared in that Tremor, with his helpers in back.
Then I heard him exclaim, as he roared out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a Trem night!”
With Christmas quickly approaching, I figured it was time to hopefully give everyone a little laugh, because it’s been a pretty stressful year and everyone deserves to smile once in a while.
I’m sure the majority of you are familiar with the Christmas poem that begins “‘Twas the night before Christmas,” but I’m guessing that some of you aren’t aware of the actual title. It’s actually called A Visit from St. Nicholas, and was written by Clement Clark Morre. Below is my adaptation of his poem and I hope it’s seen more as an homage, and less as an abomination of a classic. I guess what I’m saying is that I hope the poor guy isn’t turning in his grave after knowing that this will be somewhere online for a long time.
Anyway, here’s my early Christmas gift to all of my Tremor forum friends and family. Merry Christmas all!
A Visit From St. Tremorlas
‘Twas the night before Christmas, I’m awake in my house;
The computer was whirring, with every click of my mouse;
The tools were all lined, in my toolbox with care;
In hopes that St. Tremorlas soon would be there;
The kids were now sleeping, all snug in their beds;
While visions of Tremor rides danced in their heads;
And Mom in her Forum hoodie, our pup in her lap;
Was exhausted from wrapping and had stopped for a nap;
When out on the road there arose such a clatter;
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I ran in a hurry,
Peeked past the curtains, and tried not to worry.
The moon shining bright on the new-fallen snow,
Gave the same view as midday to objects below,
When what to my dumbfounded eyes did appear,
But a Rapid Red Tremor, with a trailer at rear;
So bright and so shiny, lights strung up on them;
I knew in a moment, it must be St. Trem!
Faster than ‘Stangs help came from the one ton,
The driver honked, and shouted, calling out to each one:
"Now, Ranger! Now, Transit! Now, Bronco and Fairlane!
On, Falcon! on, Focus!, Ranchero and Parklane!
Now get onto that porch! Climb over that wall!
Now dash away! Stash away! Then dash away all!"
Like snowflakes that dance in the wind as they fly,
When they meet with an updraft, and mount to the sky;
To the neighborhood houses those helpers they rose,
With their arms full of mods, and the tools that they chose.
And then, in a heartbeat, I heard in my house,
The quiet pitter-patter of steps, like a mouse.
I scratched at my head, then began to search around;
When into the room came St. Tremorlas with a bound.
He was dressed all in Ford gear, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all sullied with black diesel soot;
A bundle of goodies he had flung on his back,
And from out of the top poked a BuiltRight Bed Rack!
His eyes—pierced like knife point! His face, oh how hairy!
A chain stretched from his belt; to the wallet that he carry.
From the look on his face it was beginning to show,
That his time was running thin, and he needed to go;
A burnt out short stogie clenched tight in his teeth,
And brown juice from some Red Man, dribbled down underneath;
He had a weathered old face and a truck driver’s belly;
He was filthy and greasy, and honestly, smelly.
His muscles they flexed, when he reached to the shelf,
And placed an ARB dual kit, I could in-stall myself!
With a creak of his back and the squeak of a fart;
Soon, I knew, it was his time to depart;
He said not a thing, but reached into his sack,
And laid down more truck mods; then spun with a crack;
Then there he was stretching, to reach for the door;
But he stumbled and bumbled; and dropped toward the floor,
Then he shot across the yard, without leaving a track,
And appeared in that Tremor, with his helpers in back.
Then I heard him exclaim, as he roared out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a Trem night!”
