Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
This triathlete, again, was annoying his spouse.
Compression socks hung by the chimney with care
Their foul unwashed scent spoiled the living room air.
The kids were “recovering”, snug in their beds
While dreams of my spandex plums tortured their heads.
And I in 2/3 pants that show my thigh gap
Snuck in a workout while mommy gift-wrapped.
I crept ‘cross the lawn without making a clatter
And tweeted a selfie: ‘cuz every run matters⭐⭐⭐??❄????’.
I whined as I waited to fly like a flash
“Finding satellites STILL? Man this Garmin is trash!”
So then, as the moon lit the new-fallen snow
I started to stretch, thinking ‘F-you Paulo!’
When, what on my giant smartphone should appear
But Ben Hobbs and his cronies, all reeking of beer.
His wit so acerbic, his comebacks so quick
I knew right away some would call him a dick.
More tipsy than tinsel, his coursers they came
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now Dark Mark! Now Webstey! Now Preach and Murnane!
On Boring, on Taren, on James whatshisname!
To the top of iTunes, and of Google results!
Let’s see if triath-a-lon still has a pulse!
As dry heaves come forth when white bar tape goes by
So Ben and his minions lurched into my eyes.
Onto my browser, his coursers they flew
And I swear 2 Canucks tried to write interviews.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard my phone ding
And lo! A new podcast appeared on the thing.
I put in my earbuds, and tapped the controls
And Saint Ben came bounding right down my earholes.
He dressed like a bowler, his shirt baby blue
His red rooster hat sat just slightly askew.
A bundle of gear he had flung on his back;
A mic and recorder came out of that pack.
His eyes, how they shone through his clear trendy glasses!
His cheeks white as snow (no, I don’t mean his ass’s).
His droll little mouth was curled up in a smirk –
Like two parts Han Solo, and one Captain Kirk.
A Samson Q8 mic he held in his mitt
He shone with an aura of zero bullshit.
His radio face and his slight dadbod belly
Lit up when he laughed, and jiggled like jelly.
He was charming and cranky, this bipolar elf
He chastised douchebags and poked fun at himself.
With a wink of his eye, and a throat-clearing cough
We knew that we’d soon hear “Dark Mark – joke me off”™.
And next to his guest, and he went straight to work
He pulled solid gold from some stiff boring jerk.
Then laying his hands on his mixing gizmo
He thanked all his patrons, and played his outro.
He sprang from his closet, and signalled his crew
And off to the forum and Twitter they flew.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere the stop-button clicked
“All you triathletes are backpfeifengesicht!”