Poem: Happy Hour
Happy Hour
Evenin', sir. Been out on the town tonight, have we?
Just a routine checkpoint, sir. If you'd kindly whistle into this bag.
We need to establish your blood happiness levels, sir.
Yes, just a whistle is perfectly sufficient.
Or a yodel, yes.
A rousing chorus of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' would indeed do the trick, sir. If you truly feel it.
No sir, this is not an evidentiary happiness test. That is to say, it has no actual what you would call legal standing in court. But a failure would indicate sufficient cause for us to request you to accompany us to the local store for the full Seasonal Fitness examination and certificate.
His orders, sir. Our mutual friend. Him with the beard.
No, I'm sure neither of us wants that, sir. If you'd just whistle? Or hum if you prefer. It's the mirth that is the significant factor.
Involves candy canes and intubation, I believe. I've not witnessed the procedure myself. It's only my first night on the shift. Your lips go here. It may help to pucker.
There's no call for that sort of language, sir. This is for your own safety and protection during this extremely tolerant season. Once again I have to request that you perform the procedure and display visible jollity.
Sir, I'm afraid that is a fail result and I'm going to have to ask you to accompany me to the store. You are not at this point under obligation to exchange gifts, but a card will be required, and possibly one phone call. Should a gift become mandatory, you have the right of access to a gift-wrap of your choice; if you do not have gift-wrap, a tasteful bag with store branding will be provided...
