(or a Visit from St.
'Twas the week before bowl games, when all through the dorm
My thoughts were on revenue sports that had underperformed.
My Kenny Clark poster was hung up with care,
Near my UCLA football and desk Bruin bear;
The students were all sleeping or down at the bar;
While visions of Rose Bowls were once again far;
In a John Wooden t-shirt and Bruin "B" cap,
I had just settled down for my post-midterm nap,
When out on the quad there arose such a noise,
I swore it had to be the Hatfields and McCoys.
Away to the window I flew like Paul Perkins,
Tore open the blinds and threw back the curtains.
The moon on the breasts of the co-eds below,
Set the flights and paths of Bruin Walk aglow,
When what to my sorrowful eyes did present,
But a miniature bureaucrat and the athletic department,
A dude as engaging as a rusted bedpan,
I knew right away it must be St. Dan.
More rapid than weasels his sycophants came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Leslie! now, Josh! Adidas rep Ryan Lynch!
On, Scott Mitchell and Ken and the rest of the fringe!
My paycheck’s getting closer to one or two million,
We’ll move these students higher in Pauley Pavilion!"
As running backs before Miles Jack scatter,
I realized I should bolt to avoid all the clatter.
So up to the dormroom the hoard they all rushed
With Dan in the lead so I let out a cuss —
And then, in a panic, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of Beelzebub’s hoofs.
As I started to cringe and grab Kaopectate,
Down the hallway I heard a ‘Warrior’s’ trudging gait.
He was dressed in a suit, from his neck to his feet,
And his shirt was all stained with chianti and meat;
A sheaf of forms he held tight in his murse,
And I instantly knew things were going to get worse.
His eyes—how vacant! his dimples, how dreary!
His cheeks were all bloated, a walking coronary!
His shrewd little mouth was drawn up in a sneer,
And the crumbs on his chest had started to smear;
The remains of a canoli he held tight in his lips,
And dollar signs circumnavigated his skull like a ship;
He had a bald head and a little round belly
That shook when he waddled, like some kind of flop-sweat jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right nasty old troll,
Like some escaped creature from the Foster Farms Bowl;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had everything to dread;
He garbled some bullshit, then went straight to his work,
Kicked over my fir tree; then turned with a smirk,
And shoving his finger inside of his nose,
Snatched my season tickets to my greatest of woes;
He sprang to his Hyundai, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like a Josh Rosen missile.
But I heard him exclaim, ere my dinner was revealed—
"What exactly is wrong with an 80-yard field!"