Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the House,
Not a doctor was stirring, not even Hugh Laurie, that louse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
But Santa wasn’t coming, as sad as he was.
Dollhouse had been canceled and Hank had no buzz.
The Beautiful Life turned ugly and Russell’s win did not arrive,
Even worse this year the print edition of TVWeek didn’t survive.
And even the problem Accenture had with Tiger Woods libido,
Santa could have taken, if only Pepperidge Farm hadn’t killed the Lido.
Of this transgression you may not yet have heard,
It actually happened a few years ago, quietly, and it’s so patently absurd.
The Lido so proud, so substantive to bite,
Far better than the Milano, a lightweight, a fright.
And “Pshaw” to the Oreo, America’s favorite,
It’s not special enough for Santa, he doesn’t savor it.
Yes, the now discarded Lido can be found in a more expensive box collection,
But that’s not the right place for this terrific confection.
So, depressed, Santa could barely say, “Now Rachel! Now Jamie! Now Mindy and Blitzen!
On Cori! On Holly! On, on the rest of you Vixen!
Alas, Santa was cheered when the first place he arrived
Had no milk nor cookies, but nonetheless had a good vibe.
Left out for him was a picture of Oprah, his dear,
With the great news that yes, she’d still be on TV another year.
Santa sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew listening to Leno and the late John Entwistle.
Then Santa stood and shouted, “Though I don’t know if Comcast and NBC will be right,
Happy Christmas to all and to all a good-night!”
(with apologies to Henry Livingston Jr, Clement Clarke Moore and Kris Kringle)