Read this tome for a taste at the original Duck Dynasty


Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,

Half our creatures were stirring, half were sleeping on my spouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that our cat Max would not rip, shred and tear;

The Girl was nestled all snug in her bed,

While visions of the Renaissance Festival and You Tube danced in her head;

And Mamma in her leopard pajamas, and I with my Cardinals cap on,

Had just settled down for a long winter’s “What Not To Wear” marathon,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I tripped over my dirty clothes on the floor to see what was the matter.

Away to the window, I sent cats flying,

Tore open the shutters to see who I was spying.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature barbecue pit, and eight tiny brisketeers,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be Saint Pit.

More rapid than charcoal lighter, his meat minions they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, Mueller! Now, Kreuz! Now, Cooper! Now, Snow’s! Now Smitty, Joe Allen and Rudy!

Now is the proper time to perform our barbecue duty.

Out on the porch they filled up two gargantuan tubs,

With the most secretive and delectable of spicy brisket rubs.

Their meat was impressive, the likes I‘ve never seen,

It was oh so fat, but then there was a bit for those who prefer lean.

In unison they asked me what was my choice,

I quickly replied, “Are you kidding, I’ll have a pound of that moist!”

They were dressed in greasy aprons, from head to foot,

And their clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of firewood they had flung on their backs,

And they looked like angels as they opened up their packs.

The stump of their Cuban cigars were held tight in their teeth,

And the smoke it encircled their heads like a wreath.

Tossing me a sample on my butcher paper covered tray,

Soon gave me to know everything was going to be okay.

Then, much to my horrific despair, kinfolks starting showing up from everywhere.

On tractors, on horseback; in pickups and riding mowers they came,

I knew then and there, my domicile would never be the same.

Though none of us knew exactly how to handle it,

Aunt Katrina ran over a possum and flung it on the smoky pit.

And further putting a damper on this Christmas yule,

Cousin Chadus showed up with a painted Christmas mule.

Cousin Claude strode up with his new bride, Cousin Heather,

They met at our last family get together.

Uncle Huey gazed in the boiling pot and saw something afloat,

He screamed ever so loudly, “Who has ruined this goat!”

As he emerged from behind a tree and hit the ground with a mighty thud,

Four-year old Nephew Augie exclaimed, “Look, I make mud!”

Giving me a fearful nod and laying his finger aside of his nose,

Saint Pit gave his team a whistle and on their magical catering truck they all rose.

In my barbecue stupor, I heard them exclaim as they flew over the pass,

Always use wood chips, never use gas.

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2013-12-19 digital edition

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