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Brodi Ashton: I rewrote your favorite Christmas song with 2020 in mind. Enjoy.

Brodi Ashton

The other day I was feeling a little under the weather, and so I started texting my mom. She worries about me, so I have to warn her if I’m taking a nap. That way, if she calls and I don’t answer, she won’t dial 911. Ah, Mom — causing headaches in my life since 1975.

Anyway, I told her that before I took a nap, I would share with her my new Christmas song lyrics, ones I hoped would reflect our general feelings toward 2020.

Foreheads roasting on an open fire

’Ronavirus nipping at your throws

(Yeah, wash them)

Election doubts being sung by a liar

While Q-tips went way far up his nose

Then I texted her and told her I was going to take a nap because my fever was climbing. But my brain kept plugging along, and five minutes later, I’d improved upon another Christmas song, the Wham! classic “Last Christmas.”

Last Christmas, I gave you my germs

But the very next month, you gave them away

This year, to save me from fear

I’ll stick around someone maskful (That means full of mask, as in wearing a mask)

At this point my mom couldn’t help but let me know that if I have to explain what a made-up word means in a lyric, it kind of ruins the beat. I replied, “Careful, or I’ll visit you maskless.”

My mom told me I might want to take my nap now. But then she got hit by the lyric bug, too. She took on “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” the Bing Crosby version.

It’s beginning to look a lot like lockdown

No Santa and no elves

Take a look in the five and ten

No inventory once again

Not even toilet paper on the shelves

I had to admit it was pretty good. So I shot back with:

I’ll be home for Christmas

You can plan on me

To spite the phlegm

and aid BLM

and demonstrate peacefully

Christmas Eve will find me

Denouncing bigotry

I’ll be home for Christmas

If literally in my dreams

“Literal dreams, meaning actual words,” I said to my mom.

“Again, if you have to explain actual words, there may be a problem,” she said.

“Actual words?” I said. “Or literal words?”

Again she mentioned the benefits of afternoon naps, and then she asked what my fever was at.

To which I responded: “It’s high. As in…”

Angels we have heard on high

Yelling crazy prophecies

One about a man impeached

One about injecting bleach

Glo-

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

We forgot the murder hornets

They did not survive the plot

Glo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Oh oh oh no RBG

We will not forget you

Before my mom could interrupt with talk of a fever again, I went on with a 2020 version of “Santa Baby”:

Hey Zelensky, just slip a favor under the tree, for me

I’ve been an awful good boy

Hey Zelensky,

Admit it was a perfect phone call

Hey Zelensky, an outer space distraction, of course: Space Force

Then we’ll hit the golf course

Hey Zelensky, don’t ever show an ounce of remorse

At this point, my mom nudged me toward that nap. And If there was such a thing as tucking me in over the phone, my mom did it. I don’t remember the awards ceremony for our Christmas lyric contest, or even signing up for a contest, but I’m pretty sure I crushed it.

May your days be merry and bright, and may 2021 be a little more light.

Brodi Ashton is a New York Times best-selling author who lives in the Salt Lake City area. She’s also an occasional columnist for The Salt Lake Tribune.

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