The Dance of the Xmas Hippopotami
Published: December 10, 2009
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 in 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 tidbits, 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. The males form one ring around the base of Santa’s mountain, and the females another, facing opposite. 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, then picking up speed. Then faster and faster, faster, blur, and 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 Santa, so close they can feel the happiness of the world’s children in their hippo hearts, when just then 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.
This 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, decide. 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?
How does one write a Christmas piece in which Krampus is the least deranged and terrifying element (including in the tags)? Bravo.
Most excellent!
Just one word of warning: watch your ass, Wences. In my experience, troglodytes are not above retribution on whistleblowers.
Does this mean the troglodytes aren’t happy if batteries aren’t included?
I enjoyed this but I kept wondering what kind of drugs you might have been on while you wrote it and then I realized that if that was true, you would have put it in the tags.
Did you know hippos are responsible for more human deaths in the wild than tigers and lions combined? I sort of made that up but I think I heard it on the Discovery Channel.
@BC I have been meaning to compliment your avatar with the little red dot right in the heart of it. I didn’t see it at first ’cause I thought you had gone the bigleggedwoman way with the invisible avatar. I need to clean this screen.
@belltolls: Thanks! You’re probably the only one who has any idea what it’s about.
Belltolls: I heard that, too, so it must be true.
Great story; a wee bit different the lies my parents told me as a child, but infinitely more entertaining.
@ BC And I’m not telling. Makes me feel exclusive.
@belltolls: You’ve taught me something valuable and deeply disturbing about hippos today. As a reward, please read this article (with pictures) documenting hippopotamuses casually munching on an alligator.
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/environment/article6918747.ece
Wences: Wonderful, like the type of thing Tom Robbins would write, except without all the annoying things that make me kind of hate Tom Robbins. I especially like the exploding reproduction section (TMI?)
BC: I think I know the answer too! But don’t tell BellTolls.
@ BC Crocs are sneaky. He deserved it.
@ BRB Tell me what?!? Heh, heh.
This scares me.
This is a book. I have an artist in mind…and an agent.
You know what, I think I’ll just take the coal this year, thanks.
I know to leave carrots for the reindeer and cookies for Santa, but WTF am I supposed to leave for hippos and trogs? This won’t do at all. No, no. I’m going turn off my imaginary porch light, which is the understood signal for treat-or-treaters and jelly-belled gifter/grifters to stay away.
@BRB: I actually like Tom Robbins, but your statement couldn’t have been more accurate. The exploding reproduction was the piece de resistance (sorry, I don’t know how to make accent marks) of the story.
@Vox: I don’t know about trogs, but hippos are generally okay with a mixed veggie platter. They don’t have a lot of variety in the wild, so if you put out one of those trays with raq carrots, cauliflower and broccoli with like an onion dip, they are usually happy. Do no make the classic mistake of trying to serve them their native food. Take a lesson from the Obamas when they thought it would be cool to serve curry to the Prime Minister of India. You don’t want party crashers showing up, now do you?
I actually want to lock Wences in a room and force him to Wordsmoke for us. Write, Wences! Write or I will make good on this threat.
You’ve been holding out on us, Wences! I demand new lyrics to “Bad Ronald.” STAT!
Related: If anyone wants to play the first few notes of “Good King Wences” on their phone, you know, for festive reasons, those numbers are 8-2-8-3-8-8-5. I know, because that used to be my phone number.