Words to Live By Since 1993 A SPIFF Publication Vol. 3, No. 38 Joy to the world. The Lord is come. Let Earth receive her King! Another Visit from St. Slick 'Twas the night before Christmas, and through the White House President Clinton was missing, and so was her spouse. The stocks they had bought with their cow future money were missing as well. It all seemed kind of funny. They'd been missing for--I don't know. Must have been hours! (Insert your own reference to Gennifer Flowers.) A message was left, and the way it was wrote looked sim'lar to Vince Foster's suicide note. But o'er at the Capitol the Clintons weren't missed. Speaker Newt had just recently finished his list of taxes to lower and programs to cut and waste to dissolve and departments to shut. The Congress had recessed. They fastened the lock. Our attention now turns back to Old Little Rock Where a mystery man in an old El Camino was checking his weapons, despite Janet Reno. The veto pen: working. The shredder: inspected. And Doc Elders would have been proud: He's protected! But back in the real world, the children galore were trimming the tree. It looked just like Owl Gore. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave a luster of midday to the Spiff Executive Tower, on the banks of the mighty Cumberland River. And what did I see as I looked toward the glade but a miniature sleigh filled with Bosnian aid. With a little old driver, so liberal and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Slick. More rapid than eagles his team was retiring. And he whined and complained and he started perspiring. "Come back, Mr. Bradley! Jim Exon! Paul Simon!" (I know this is lame, but these names just aren't rhymin'.) "Get back here, Montgom'ry! Pat Schroeder! Sam Nunn! You can't leave me now! My work's only begun! "Don't go, Howell Heflin! Wait up, David Pryor! I'm feeling your pain!" the man said. What a liar! But from yonder in Texas way up to St. Paul they just kept retiring. They dashed away all! So he said, "That's ok. I'm still relevant, right?" Then he jumped down the chimney and stuck. What a fright! I was scared, and I had to protect my loved ones so I went to the store to pick up some hand guns. Five days past, and I fin'ly returned to my castle. Good thing he's still stuck after all of that hassle! As I opened the door and was turning around down the chimney St. Slickolas--SPLAT--hit the ground. He was dressed all in fur, it was fake like his smile. When he spoke, he said nothing, but he said it with style. I just couldn't shoot him. I really felt awful. Then he opened his pack and he asked, "Want a waffle?" His eyes how they twinkled. They were fiery like Waco. His teeth were cigar-stained. His smile was still fake-o. His droll, little mouth was now shaped like an O from saying too much, "No! No! No! No! No! No!" That unlit cigar he still had in his mouth thinking all that tobacco would win him the South. He had a broad--Nothing was new about that. And unlike Rush Limbaugh, he still looked quite fat. He was chubby. Yeah, that would be P.C. enough. But I couldn't stop thinking, "It's Mr. Sta-Puft!" A wink of his eye, and a bob of his head soon gave me to wonder: Is Elvis not dead? He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work. He took all the stockings and turned, the big jerk! And raising my taxes, and thumbing his nose and taking my cash, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, but his team had all gone (though Ted Kennedy still was passed out on the lawn). And we heard him complain, e'er he ran out of luck, "'Round this time next November, I'll be a lame duck!" Words to Live By is published every week at about this time by Spiff. You can send a fax to us here in the Spiff Executive Tower, on the banks of the mighty Cumberland River, at 615-847-2259, or you can send us e-mail at spiff@nashville.com.