Post by KwYawnza on Dec 13, 2014 14:02:48 GMT -6
Twas the night before Playoffs, when all through the house
Not a GM was stirring, not even a Skrouse;
The GM rankings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Odin soon would be there;
The contenders were nestled all smug in their beds;
While visions of Sim Titles danced in their heads;
And RW in her 'kerchief, and Ian in his cap,
Had just settled their brains for a long shout scrap,
When out on the Proboards there arose such a clatter,
Ian sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window Ian flew like to his proboards app ,
Tore open the Shoutbox and threw up the Chat.
The awful Grizzlies’ colors on the newly christened theme,
Gave a lustre of championships to midday dream,
When what to Ian wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny top tier GMs,
With a massive deep voiced driver so tall and foreboding,
Ian knew in a moment he must be Commissioner Odin.
More rapid than the Alabama defense his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Druce! now, Soup! now Dirt and JamesHardenBeard!
On, 20s! on, 2Poor! on, Trofie and Tyler!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the walls!
Now dash away! dash away! dash to the sweat drip down my balls!!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane kn88 fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, a Canes trade request denied;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of Dump bucks, and big Ol’ Odin too—
And then, in a twinkling, Ian heard from the basement sump pump
The prancing and pawing of a hairy grumpy Dump.
As Ian drew in his head, and was turning around,
On the Sim Results board big Ol’ Odin came with a bound.
He was dressed all in crimson, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Sims he had flung on his back,
And he looked like an MJ just opening his 6-pack.
His eyes—how they glazed! his Sim authority he sure did rank!
His internet connection questionable, his weed certainly dank!
And the beard on his chin was as thick as Buster’s;
The stump of a pipe, where the dopest weed did blaze, he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a deep voice
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of Brunsy.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old Destiny Awoken,
And Ian laughed when Ian saw him, in spite of McDonald’s Wifi;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave Ian to know RW had nothing to celebrate;
Odin spoke not a word, but went straight to his sim,
And filled all the depth charts; then turned on a whim,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the graphic a Timberwolves banner did rose;
He sprang to his miniature sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But Ian heard Odin exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Playoffs to all, and to all a good night!”
Not a GM was stirring, not even a Skrouse;
The GM rankings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Odin soon would be there;
The contenders were nestled all smug in their beds;
While visions of Sim Titles danced in their heads;
And RW in her 'kerchief, and Ian in his cap,
Had just settled their brains for a long shout scrap,
When out on the Proboards there arose such a clatter,
Ian sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window Ian flew like to his proboards app ,
Tore open the Shoutbox and threw up the Chat.
The awful Grizzlies’ colors on the newly christened theme,
Gave a lustre of championships to midday dream,
When what to Ian wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny top tier GMs,
With a massive deep voiced driver so tall and foreboding,
Ian knew in a moment he must be Commissioner Odin.
More rapid than the Alabama defense his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Druce! now, Soup! now Dirt and JamesHardenBeard!
On, 20s! on, 2Poor! on, Trofie and Tyler!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the walls!
Now dash away! dash away! dash to the sweat drip down my balls!!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane kn88 fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, a Canes trade request denied;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of Dump bucks, and big Ol’ Odin too—
And then, in a twinkling, Ian heard from the basement sump pump
The prancing and pawing of a hairy grumpy Dump.
As Ian drew in his head, and was turning around,
On the Sim Results board big Ol’ Odin came with a bound.
He was dressed all in crimson, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Sims he had flung on his back,
And he looked like an MJ just opening his 6-pack.
His eyes—how they glazed! his Sim authority he sure did rank!
His internet connection questionable, his weed certainly dank!
And the beard on his chin was as thick as Buster’s;
The stump of a pipe, where the dopest weed did blaze, he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a deep voice
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of Brunsy.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old Destiny Awoken,
And Ian laughed when Ian saw him, in spite of McDonald’s Wifi;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave Ian to know RW had nothing to celebrate;
Odin spoke not a word, but went straight to his sim,
And filled all the depth charts; then turned on a whim,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the graphic a Timberwolves banner did rose;
He sprang to his miniature sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But Ian heard Odin exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Playoffs to all, and to all a good night!”
