The Dance of the Xmas Hippopotami
This Xmas, as with every Xmas since days beyond reckoning, it comes time once again for the Yuletide hippopotami that live in the brush at the base of the mighty volcanic mountain to the north to greatly increase their numbers. For once again it comes time, as Santa reigns on high, for the Dance of the Xmas Hippopotami. Time to sway the Santa from his powerful indifference towards a chuckling joy, in order that deserving girls and boys the world over may receive the glittering gifts to which they’ve grown accustomed this time of year. But—
The troglodytes are stirring in the mountain.
Deep in the boiling bowels of the volcano, the troglodyte president has called the troglodyte branches of government to order. For, as with every Xmas since days beyond reckoning, it comes time once again for the trogs to thwart the gentle hippopotami from their destiny’s aim, to prevent their cheerful demonstration of altruism, for it is not a Happy Santa that is the troglodyte’s most fervent desire, but an Angry Santa [Roar!], a Santa all razor claws and pointed teeth, who in his rage will not reward the world’s girls and boys with bright presents and tasty treats, but instead devour the wee ones in their beds, feasting their flesh down to the bone.
The troglodytes are stirring in the mountain.
So the loving hippopotami, to increase their chance of success in this essential pilgrimage to the volcano’s peak, begin their annual reproductive cycle, that startling hippo biology for which they are so well known. The males form one ring around the base of Santa’s mountain, and the females another, facing the opposite direction. A circle within a circle around the mountain, with Santa still yet indifferent at his bullseye perch, gazing unconcerned at nothing at all from the apex, the pinnacle of Xmas possibility. And the hippopotami below begin to march, fellahs one way, the gals another, do-si-do, slow at first, then picking up speed. Faster and faster they whirl about the volcano, building heat and friction and static, until first one, then another and another, the hippos begin to burst, they explode, pop! they explode, pop! pop! and scatter tiny hippos across the side of the volcano, miniature versions of their progenitors, little hippos who immediately begin to climb the steep slope of the mountain, growing as they do to their full hippo size.
The troglodytes are stirring in the mountain.
Hearing the commotion above their shadowy lairs, the troglodytes vote to take action, for time’s a-wasting, Santa must not be cheered by the sight of the hippos’ endeavors, must not download sentiments ting-a-ling and warm and fuzzy to the human-born girls and boys. Instead the trogs are dream-dreaming of Angry Santa ravenously filling his Angry Santa belly with the meat of those self-same young youngsters. Thereby the trogs, once in possession of the castoff undelivered glittering gifts, will be free to chew off the bright shining wrappings, breaking plastic and wood and rubber, gnawing double-A and D-cells with malevolent glee, their beady eyes twinkling at the back of their hidey-hole cave homes.
The troglodytes are stirring in the mountain.
The hippos are nearly to their goal, their marching hippo army ascending the mountain towards the indifferent Santa, so close they can feel the happiness of the world’s children in their hippo hearts, when the troglodytes come streaming from holes in the igneous rock, crawling out of smoking crevices, waving their spindly arms and frowning their unpleasant frowns, intent on preventing any hippopotami from passing under Santa’s gaze.
The battle, with much hippo stomp and trog hit, rages on with Santa on high looking down in blissful benevolence while packing his sack with packages as a hippo stomp-stomps a trog, or else clenching his Santa mitts into mighty fists of vengeance as a trog scores a hit, gnashing his Santa teeth into razor sharp choppers, child chewers.
Which will it be? Who will win?
The troglodytes are stirring in the mountain.
Decide whether you wish a happy, joyful Santa, or a dangerous, vengeful Santa. For the children, is it going to be tasty treats or the BBQ meat of those girls and boys?
The hippopotami, they try, but every year the troglodytes, they fight.
And the magic gibbons nest in the trees—waiting—for the parade.
Santa?
