A little creativity by Joe P
“‘Twas the night before Projmas”
‘Twas the night before Projmas, when all through the booth
Victor was cussing; another gear broke a tooth.
The film loops were hung by number 20 with care,
In the hopes that St. Andy soon would be there.
The roaches were nestled all snug in their beds,
When I’m behind the stand I step on their heads.
Ryan in his ‘kerchief and Dave in his cap,
Had just run upstairs to fix a brain wrap.
When up from the high-side there arose such a clatter,
The projectionist said, “it’s just nineteen’s platter.”
Away to the proj booth I flew like a flash,
Ran into the door with a bone jarring crash.
Dave said to Vic “These feed plates sure blow.”
“What the fuck is wrong now, someone should call Joe.”
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But William C. Voight, with a case of cold beer.
With a handsome young driver, who makes the girls randy,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Andy.
More rapid than eagles his curses they came,
And he screamed, and yelled and called them all names.
Now bitch-ass, now bastard, now slacker and bitchin,
On dumb-shit, on stupid, on cracker, I’m pissin!
From the top of the stairs down into the hall,
Throw away, throw away, throw away bulbs!
As boxes that before the wild manager fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, explode with a cry.
So up to the high-side the proj crew they flew
With a case full of beer and St. Andy too.
And then lots of clinking I heard in the booth
The laughing and calling “this beer’s 80 proof!”
As I moved the film cans and was turning around
Down 24’s stairs St. Andy came with a bound
He was dressed all in denim from his head to his foot
But his hands were all tarnished with gear lube and soot.
A bundle of film he had flung on his back
And he grimaced in pain when his shoulder went crack!
His knees how they crumbled! This moment quite scary!
The exact same thing once happened to Mary!
His fast moving mouth let the swearing just flow,
And the skin on his face was as white as the snow.
The list of the preshow he had in his teeth,
And a bruise on his shoulder he’d have for a week.
He had a tan face, and I’m told a flat belly,
And a pair of brown shoes that were really quite smelly.
He picked up the print from the top platter shelf,
And I thought when I saw him “why’d he move that himself?”
A tear in his eye and the tilt of his head,
Soon gave me the thought “cross-plexes I dread.”
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
He did all the print moves then; turned with a jerk.
And wiping his hands on his now soiled clothes,
And flipping us off up to the low-side he rose.
He walked to the desk, to the proj gave a whistle,
And to the bar they flew like a bullet from a pistol.
But I heard him exclaim, as he walked out of sight,
Merry Projmas to all, and to all a good-night!
This was written by Joe and I thought I'd share it because it was awesome
‘Twas the night before Projmas, when all through the booth
Victor was cussing; another gear broke a tooth.
The film loops were hung by number 20 with care,
In the hopes that St. Andy soon would be there.
The roaches were nestled all snug in their beds,
When I’m behind the stand I step on their heads.
Ryan in his ‘kerchief and Dave in his cap,
Had just run upstairs to fix a brain wrap.
When up from the high-side there arose such a clatter,
The projectionist said, “it’s just nineteen’s platter.”
Away to the proj booth I flew like a flash,
Ran into the door with a bone jarring crash.
Dave said to Vic “These feed plates sure blow.”
“What the fuck is wrong now, someone should call Joe.”
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But William C. Voight, with a case of cold beer.
With a handsome young driver, who makes the girls randy,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Andy.
More rapid than eagles his curses they came,
And he screamed, and yelled and called them all names.
Now bitch-ass, now bastard, now slacker and bitchin,
On dumb-shit, on stupid, on cracker, I’m pissin!
From the top of the stairs down into the hall,
Throw away, throw away, throw away bulbs!
As boxes that before the wild manager fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, explode with a cry.
So up to the high-side the proj crew they flew
With a case full of beer and St. Andy too.
And then lots of clinking I heard in the booth
The laughing and calling “this beer’s 80 proof!”
As I moved the film cans and was turning around
Down 24’s stairs St. Andy came with a bound
He was dressed all in denim from his head to his foot
But his hands were all tarnished with gear lube and soot.
A bundle of film he had flung on his back
And he grimaced in pain when his shoulder went crack!
His knees how they crumbled! This moment quite scary!
The exact same thing once happened to Mary!
His fast moving mouth let the swearing just flow,
And the skin on his face was as white as the snow.
The list of the preshow he had in his teeth,
And a bruise on his shoulder he’d have for a week.
He had a tan face, and I’m told a flat belly,
And a pair of brown shoes that were really quite smelly.
He picked up the print from the top platter shelf,
And I thought when I saw him “why’d he move that himself?”
A tear in his eye and the tilt of his head,
Soon gave me the thought “cross-plexes I dread.”
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
He did all the print moves then; turned with a jerk.
And wiping his hands on his now soiled clothes,
And flipping us off up to the low-side he rose.
He walked to the desk, to the proj gave a whistle,
And to the bar they flew like a bullet from a pistol.
But I heard him exclaim, as he walked out of sight,
Merry Projmas to all, and to all a good-night!
This was written by Joe and I thought I'd share it because it was awesome