The Titans in their Tower loved Christmas a lot.

But the Control Freak, who lived at an undisclosed location,

Did NOT!

It wasn’t his heart, nor hate for the season,

He had a more personal, nerdlier reason.

“These toys are all wrong!” he declared with disgust.

And he tossed GI Joe Extreme aside, to collect dust.

“No love for the canon, established with care,

By underpaid writers with unruly hair!

These Teen Ninja Turtles, no matter how cool,

Are not of MY childhood, and thus are for fools!

And Optimus Prime is a truck, not a monkey,

This whole gosh darned season has gone rather funky!

I can just hear the children, clamoring for their Wiis,

When my childhood, MY toys should bring them to their knees!

They all want their Bratz, and their plastic exteriors,

Unknowing, the dolts, that the past was superior!

I must teach these fools, one way or the other,

That the 80’s just RULED, so said my big brother!”

He pondered and pondered, and pondered some more,

He pondered so hard that his ass became sore.

Then he leapt to his feet, inspiration had struck!

“I’ll go through the town, by sleigh or by truck!

From house to house, I’ll distribute the good toys,

To the naughty or nice, so they’ll know some pure joys!”

So he went onto e-bay, and using a hack,

Won all of the auctions for 80’s shellac!

After selling a kidney, and taking some loans,

This faux St. Nick went to rip off Chuck Jones!

A click of his wand, and the suit was made ready,

And a sack to haul Shredder, Bebop and Rocksteady.

The last touch he made was a sleigh of vibranium,

Led by eight robot reindeer, made of purest Titanium.

“My active lifestyle has made my physique

Perfect for the role!” So said Control Freak!

So off he went, on his sleigh made of naught,

Rockets a blasting, his gifts all a-bought.

Meanwhile, away in their Tower of T,

Our five heroes worked ‘pon their Christmas Tree.

Robin the leader was tied up and knocked silly,

When Cyborg used his tinsel-zooka willy nilly.

“It’s twice as efficient!” said the man made of metal.

“I just have bugs to work out, and this darned sticky pedal!”

Between that and the argument, of Tofu or real Turkey,

They turned a blind eye to the Santa Claus quirky.

Starfire alone was busy in her loft,

Writing a letter to Santa (as she did so oft).

“Dear Large Red Giving Man,” the alien began,

“I hope you are well, and I know it is late, except in Japan,

Due to the international dateline, but that’s another story,

For I have requests, being of yuletide glory.

For Cyborg an X-Box, for Gar some new shoes,

For Raven some incense, for Robin some clues,

‘Bout where Slade might be hiding (he always is looking)

And he’s in many places. Talk about double booking!

For myself, I am easy, I want only one thing,

A Klatnar Bamboobulous, with the Vorpian ring.

If this you can grant, then I shall be happy,

And even if not, not to be the sappy,

But I think all is well, it’s a wonderful life.

These things would be nice, but their lack won’t cause strife.”

She wrote out her letter, with hearts over the “I”’s,

Then went to join her friend and help Robin untie.

“This job is too easy!” declared the rotund man,

As he zoomed ‘cross the city, fulfilling his plan.

“With this remote and this sleigh,

Space-time is my bitch!”

And then he discovered his plan had a hitch.

He had no list, much less one checked twice,

Though it’s not like he cared who was naughty or nice.

The houses with children looked just the same,

As those with a lack. He called to his reindeer, knowing each by name,

“Stop Lela, stop Bender, stop Fry and Stop Frink!

Stop all’a y’all, I have to think!

He pondered again, though not quite as long,

And he realized he was going about it all wrong.

“I need to steal Christmas, and fix it by force,

Adults can have toys too! I have no remorse,

For the silly society that says toys are for tots.

I’ll show them all! The whole sorry lot!”

And so he went through the city, doing the wrong.

We all know the lyrics, care to sing along?

“You’re a fat-ass, Control Freak.

You really are a blob.

I know tubbiness is needed,

If you really need the job,

Mister Freeeeeeeeak!

But… you’re so fat, your momma tells jokes about you!

You’re a bastard, Control Freak,

You’re also quite insane.

If you think Go-Bots was a good show,

You’ve got scorpions in your brain

Mister Freeeeeeeeeak!

When you sit on a rainbow, you compress the atoms of the water molecules, creating a black hole!

You’re a loser, Control Freak.

You’re armed with GI Joes.

From the smell you should have had a bath

To go with your change of clothes

Mister Freeeeeeeeeak!

You’re so 80’s, Mister T tells you to get with the times!

You’re a moron, Control Freak.

You are trapped in the past.

All your villains had lame voices,

And those toys are all die cast,

Mister Freeeeeeeeeak!

If you counted all the 80’s TV shows that aged well, you’d still have five fingers on your hand!

After the song, which was most disparaging,

Control Freak held his sides, he was sure he was hem’rrhaging.

“My sleek, nerdly body is not meant for such stress.

And I’ve stolen as much Christmas as one can, I guess.

Albeit the secular part, I confess.

I have one more stop I forgot, one last push, one last press.

The Tower of T shall be stormed in the hour.

But even MY nose says that I need a shower.”

His clothes made less smelly, and his nose far less yellow,

He looked near authentic, this fanboyish fellow.

Quadsaber in hand, he stormed Fortress Titan.

But he forgot their defenses, and soon he was fightin’.

“I forgot they’re no Whos, who have no defense.

I’m glad they’re not MY walls, the repairs will be immense!”

The Titans, asleep, managed to sleep through this clamor,

Though they were underage, they were quite hammered.

Beast Boy’s bad jokes had finally cost ‘em.

For all of their things in the bag the Freak tossed ‘em.

With a swig of spiked punch spreading all through his veins,

Control Freak availed himself of the Titan’s games.

“Die Goombas, die Grunts and die, zombies all!

Before my l33t pwnage, you are doomed to fall!”

The noise was equal to a huge Boeing plane.

That only one Titan should wake, well, credulity’s strained.

But Starfire was not drunk, so she hear all the noise.

She hoped her good hopes, thinking, “It’s the giver of toys!”

She edged into the main room, and saw “Saunta Claus,”

Imbibing of egnog, a controller in his paws.

“Oh Big Red Gift Man, my letter was sent,

Not three hours ago! The rules have been bent!

You have arrived to give me material bliss!”

Control Freak hiccupped and said, “Take a swig of this.”

The next morning her head would feel like an elephant had,

Stomped on it for four hours. In short, she felt bad.

She’d never know what had happened the night just before.

But she noted a change in her low Gamerscore.

Being mindful of tradition, and fanboyish omage,

He was ready to dump all his new fangled garbage,

Over Mount Jump, he’d shove out the junk,

But he needed a sit, and he sat with a plunk.

“So much for exertion being good for the heart.

My left arm is aching. But wait! The day starts!

I’ll cock my head thus, and I’ll listen quite close,

To those grateful children!” he happily bost’d.

But did he hear praise, for the toys of the past?

If he heard anything, then that was the last.

“What the hell is a Go-bot?” said John McGregor.

“Where is my Playstation?” whined Mindy Klunswager.

“I don’t have my new Hooplestan Glibringled!”

(that last little boy was not right in the head).

A cry of derision, nearly thousand score

Bombarded Control Freak, and shook him to the core.

“They whine!” he exclaimed. “I just don’t understand it!

My toys are teh awesome! How can they not stand it?

I gave them He-Man and Transformers and ROM!

What of Cobra Commander? He was the bomb!”

What happened to next is debated, they say

For his actions weren’t public, nor recorded were they.

Perhaps his shoes finally fit right.

Or maybe his coat stopped being so tight.

Most unlikely of all, for a fan of his type,

Was cold reality finally cut through all of his tripe.

“Maybe my toys weren’t as good as what’s made nowadays…

My toys are all boxed, meant pure for display.

Maybe… maybe Christmas of past didn’t come in a box.

As said the man who wrote of Fox in Sox.

Maybe the toys of my youth were grand when I was young,

But now… to the new kds they’re worth elephant dung.”

So did he return the gifts, what the children had lost?

No, he sold them on E-bay, to defray his great costs.

And his heart grew three sizes, ‘least that’s what they say.

He had four heart attacks that next Boxing Day.

The End