This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 118

This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 118

The stockings are hung, possibly with care. That’s not really my concern. They don’t even have to be hung, as not everyone has a chimney. The important thing is that they’re available, rhyme scheme notwithstanding, in hopes that I’ll soon be there.

That’s right, I have a secret to admit. I’m actually Kurt Russell and I’m closing in on the busiest night of the year, at least for me. The whole world is depending on me and I have to deliver, both literally and figuratively. If I fail, then the alien lifeform will escape and wreak havoc upon all of civilization.

It all started when the Norwegians tried to take out a rogue sled dog. Most think it was a reindeer, but that’s just poetic license. Anyway, they failed and the alien lifeform began trying to assimilate other members of the crew. This meant I had to take charge, mostly out of boredom because I got mad and smashed my chess computer. In any case, we all ended up freezing to death. Or did we?

Because while it seemed that way, somehow the story made it out of the artic, which means that one of us survived. Maybe it was an assimilated version, but that’s not important. What is important is that the Christmas season is a time for miracles and escapes from various geographic locations. Hans Gruber may have stayed away, but he isn’t the only one who can ruin Christmas. There’s also Wilford Brimley.

Brimley could smash radios and vehicles, but he couldn’t stop me from my mission. Whether in a frozen research station or after being thrown off a yacht or on a sleigh, I persisted. But unlike senators, I actually accomplished things. Because unlike senators, I had real resolve, and a flamethrower.


This sounds like a joke, but it is comforting when you’re facing the horrors of an alien menace unearthed by Norwegian researchers.


One thing that’s often missing from frank discussions about what happened in that artic base is a the truth about Mrs. Claus-Russell.


And how she wanted to spend the holiday once the work was done.


If more of you would’ve adopted this, it would have really made my life easier.


While this would suggest the naughty list, it didn’t, necessarily. Remember what the Norwegians unearthed.


It’s Brimley, man. I should’ve treated him like I did my chess computer.


Having him on the team could’ve been a game changer. Alas, it wasn’t to be.


She was on the team, but she chose not to be a game changer.


Do you want the Norwegians to get you? Rub some dirt on it and get it together.


It was the zombies, homie. They may or may not have been assimilated.


This one definitely invited the flamethrower.


The former.


‘Twas the season?


Brimley wasn’t the only one who wasn’t playing nice.


Not that the sled dog was much better. The Norwegians weren’t wrong.


It didn’t help that Captain Diabeetus cut the power.


But he did offer more resistance to the flamethrower, which I guess was his superpower.


One thing that was lacking was gear designed for trekking about the artic trying to escape alien dogs and Norwegians.


Not that the rations were anything to write home about.


He tried to steal my sled and my flamethrower. He’s all too real.


This guy, well, he was part of the reason the Norwegians went on the rampage in the first place.


A lesson we learned all too well, in the form of expressing disrespect with a device that shoots fire.


There was a soundtrack, if not wholly accurate. “Artic Queen” just doesn’t have the same ring.


While Brimley was out of control, other members of the crew offered more salient observations.


And others recognized the enormity of the situation.


We also had to grapple with the possibility that everything that was occurring was in our heads. In any case, I still had presents to deliver.


It sounded fun, but it also woke our chief inside-the-house antagonist.


So I prepared to take off in my sleigh, with the Norwegians hot on my heels and at least one reluctant sled dog. For him, fortunately, I had an answer.


This guy went on the nice list, with gusto.


Yes, weird. (Summon the Vikings.)


Not that everyone got caught up in the craziness of the situation, even if Wilford did keep trying to feed her copious amounts of pecan pie.


They knew when the alien was the most vulnerable.


Not that there weren’t obstacles.


In any case, the crew had a plan.


A plan that didn’t rest in the face of adversity, but rose to the occasion, because Christmas is a time of love.


Good, good, but we still had to kiss him with fire, just to be sure.


Especially if that thing was stopping an alien invasion, on Christmas no less.


For after the cookies and milk, there was something better waiting.


And it wasn’t this, though that was also tempting. Thwarting required so much effort.


Floridians called it the King of States. The rest of us knew better, though it’s lack of permafrost does make it more difficult for aliens to dig out a hiding spot in which to wait for Norwegians.


Plus we loved what we were doing, even if not all the stockings were hung with care and if Wilford Brimley and some replicant-type things were trying to kill us. It was a complementary relationship.


And “always” necessarily implies “sometimes,” which that occasion was, not least of which because we were trying to save the world so I could deliver coal and other presents to children the world over.


That spirit, despite what you may have gathered from the documentary about our travails, is what allowed us to prevail. We bested the beasts, with an assist from the Nordic people, and off I sped.

The crew was flummoxed. Maybe because my beard wasn’t white, but they were forgetting the truth about why it was white. It wasn’t because I was old, but because I was cold. The snow and frost was frozen in and I wasted most of my antifreeze smashing my chess computer. Nevertheless, I still persisted.

I looked at the crew, or what remained of them, and at the charred wasteland that was once our camp and offered a proclamation. Christmas was still on. It was my privilege, and my duty. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a fiery night.

Richard Cromwell is a senior contributor to The Federalist. Follow him on Twitter, @rcromwell4.
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