Showing posts with label Fred Smith Xmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fred Smith Xmas. Show all posts

Friday, December 26, 2025

Fred Smith Does it Again - with some help - SAInt Nick’s Visit to New York

Friday, Dec. 26, 2025
 
Every year since, forever, Fred Smith has posted his Xmas message. You can read them all at Ed Notes archives and they are all worth it being so topical. 
 
Another year, 
another poem from Fred.
Not a lot of cheer
in a dismal year. 
But do not fear,
We have Fred's Photo with NY Jets Dancers
For us to share
--- Norm's feeble attempt at rhyme

Fred Smith has been posting his xmas messages here and elsewhere for many years. The message may be a bit gloomy, but have no fear, Fred always has a cheer.

I first met Fred, a testing expert who used to work as a statistician for the old NYCBOE, when he contacted me about getting ICE members to assist in gathering data for his exposures of the evils of testing I think sometime around 2008. He then got involved with groups like GEM and Change the Stakes and was a co-winner with me and Danny Dromm of Leonie Haimson's Skinny Award in 2018 - (June 19 - I'm a Skinny: Honored to be honored by )

Fred Smith has done it again with his yearly Xmas special. 
 

If it's Christmas, it must be Fred at Ed Notes.

Here is Fred's message for 2025: 

I wanted to use AI to compose a spoofy version of “A Visit from St. Nicholas” that would focus on New York City politicos and the gifts Santa would bring them tonight.  I charged Chatgpt the task of creating couplets designed to incorporate snippets about each personality, hoping this faceless poet would parody the beloved classic. 

With impressive speed, the flash of a few seconds, Chatgpt returned rhymes based on its “understanding” of my choppy input.  These seeds required my limited intelligence to sprout.  Here’s the result of our collaboration.

SAInt Nick’s Visit to New York

Christmas Eve came and went, although Santa was sad.
There were good kids in Gotham but some who were bad;
His elves were tired, the deer a year older,
And he now bore his sack on a sore shoulder.
Why bother to make a list or check it twice;
His heart not in it, he sought AI’s advice.
When all at once, this burden turned into a game,
As rhymes and gifts appeared next to each person’s name.
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
For Andrew Cuomo:
A book filled with the lessons he hasn’t yet learned,
Not bundles of accolades which he never earned.
A mirror for moments he’d rather not face,
And a clock ticking loud on man’s power and place;
A humility pill to swallow each day,
With a card from St. Nick: “Think of staying away.”
 
For Zohran Mamdani:
Energies to take on the battles ahead
Brought by enemies who fear he’ll do what he said.
He’ll need advisors tuned to his working-class call
For its fair share of the pie even if small.
And last from Santa, with a half-cup of cheer—
A phonetic name plate to start out the New Year.

For Curtis Sliwa:
Santa winked upon Curtis this Xmas eve,
Red beret blazing and without tricks up his sleeve.
From Guardian Angels to mayor’s debate,
This cat-loving crusader spoke to us straight.
While Cuomo grumbles and blames Sliwa for losing,
Nick gave him props—he was not merely amusing.
 
For Jessica Tisch:
He sent the Commish wishes this season of light,
Whose proud Chanukah heritage keeps burning bright.
When she and Zohran shared a meal of shawarma,
She soon warmed up to this prison reformer.
Claus hoped when their views about Israel burst,
They could differ but have city safety come first.
 
For Michael Mulgrew:
Santa has a weathervane that helps guide his sled.
Wryly, he gave it to Michael Mulgrew instead.
This gift fits his ever-quick shifts ‘tween to and fro,
For which way the wind blows Mulgrew always must know.
A rigged voting process ensures re-election;
Union members sold out can’t force his rejection.
 
For Eric Adams:
Hizzoner skipped town, so no Christmas visit,
Closing out his everyday fashion exhibit.
His record was dimmed by dishonest cronies
With one thing in common, they had big cojones.
Adams’ goodbye was sealed by a deal made with Trump;
Had he remained home, Claus would have dropped off a lump.
 
For former mayors:
Santa remembered gifts left ’neath past mayors’ trees:
A Prospect Y gym pass to adorn BdB’s;
Nothing for Bloomie—he had all he needed;
Anger control warnings Rudy unheeded;
Tennis white shorts Dinkins would look like new in;
A scorebook telling Koch how he was doin’.
 
For faithful civil servants:
St. Nick beamed for those who keep New York running,
Who do upright work, unsung without cunning.
In every job title, in every condition,
The public good is their hon’rable full-time mission.
Upholding the banner of orange and blue,
Santa’s uplifting peeps, “Merry Christmas to you.”
 
Chatgpt as told to Fred Smith, who retired as an administrative analyst for the NYC public school system.
 
Last year I missed Fred's missive probably due to chemo brain. He did not do his usual xmas but an election pre-quel in Sept that did not turn out exactly as he wished. He shoulda used AI then.
 
The Weeks Before Christmas
  by Fred Smith – September 16, 2024
The days are swift passing until it’s December,
But Christmas will dawn on the 5th of November.
Two months ‘fore Election Day and throughout the land
Joy has been stirring, hopeful relief near at hand.

As late as July, there was a sense of despair.
Optimism was fading and breathing foul air.
Then Biden withdrew; ‘twas all of a sudden.
Harris stepped up, and light started to flood in.

Cheerful Kamala smiled without missing a beat,
Catching a bone-spurred bully off guard on flat feet.
She’s a Black-Asian woman who married a Jew.
See your priest or your rabbi if that troubles you.

So, Karma took over when Joe lost a debate;
Poetic justice, at last, dictating Trump’s fate.
Running strong against Donald whose gospel is hate,
Whose bloody rage keeps him in a constant red state.

She picked as her running mate, Governor Walz,
A true everyman, who responds to all calls.
When fast off they flew to swing states and rallied,
As Trump more and more scowled and dilly dallied.

He who had chosen JD Vance as his veep,
Whose obeisance displayed how much he’s a creep.
A wide-eyed senator dreaming on his love couch;
A perfect match partner for the impious grouch.
And as Grumpy campaigns with his sidekick Goofy,
This ragged tag team has been double down doofy.

Years back, there were signs Trump was non compos mentis,
Strutting ruthlessness skills on the Apprentice,
Firing everyone at his ultimate whim
With unchecked power reserved only to him.

And twenty years ere that reality show,
Wayne Barrett mapped the deets of Donald’s M.O.:
His deep-seated racism; the shield of Roy Cohn;
Dirty dealing and cheating, these all were well known.
This self-proclaimed titan whose casinos went bust;
A big entrepreneur no contractor could trust.

Now Trump’s mainly consumed by the size of each crowd,
Ranting in blue whale-ish suits that fit like a shroud.
Carrot-faced, his puss locked into a grimace,
Stewing up gripes in a big steamy tsimmes
That he feeds to his base in a crock full of lies,
Which he always refills with unending supplies:

About how he built walls to bar immigration
That’s turning us into a third world nation;
And why it made sense to oppose vaccination;
Or how he lowered our high rate of inflation.
Try figuring where he stands on abortions,
As he twists yes – no – maybes into contortions.

And he’s only become more misogynistic
With a baseline temper that starts at ballistic.
Who’s used the court system to dodge Judgment Day;
But like Yertle, he’s doomed to crash down the same way.

While Karismatic Harris along with the Coach
Continued to roll out, facing minor reproach.
After last month’s convention billowed their sails,
Felonious Trump pondered his choice of jails.

Then Trump and JD took their road show on tour.
We got a chance to suffer each faux pas du jour.
Effronteries and distractions almost non-stop:
Making losers at Arlington serve as a prop;
Blaming incomplete women for going bats
For not birthing children, who instead adopt cats.
And if he debated, would the show be on FOX,
With no questions allowed about man-eating sharks?

With the big DEBATE looming he put out new stuff,
Pulling ugly assertions straight out of his duff:
Haitians dining on take-out (kidnapped dogs and geese),
A claim debunked by Springfield’s Chief of Police.

And then the DEBATE—Trump unable to face her;
Harris owned this coward who’s tried to debase her.
He fumed when she treated his rallies with scorn,
And went off on killing babies once they were born.

Harris scored point after point ad infinitum.
Her words and her “looks” combined to smite him.
A minute later Trump spun that he’d won the night
But refused to give Harris a second fight.

It’s hard to keep up with the stream of offenses;
The barrage of untruths that assault our senses
With conspiracy theories that come abounding,
Each one more bizarre and beyond astounding.

Countless the lies exceeding verses and rhymes.
The volume and scope of his numerous crimes;
Perverting O. Henry’s “The Gift of the Magi,”
Trump’s Christmas tale is, The “Grift of the MAG Guy.”
        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Be careful Kamala! Victory’s not in the bag
With twisted judges flying the upside-down flag,
Abetting Trump, concocting legal protections
Re the insurrection and stealing elections.

We know the one Harris Poll that counts most of all,
Is when people show up to cast ballots this fall,
And tell Donald Trump what they think of his fury.
Voters render the verdict. We are the jury.

Fred Smith retired from the New York City public school system
as an administrative analyst. His occasional poems and op-eds
have appeared in the New York Daily News and other newspapers.


 
 
 
 
Here is my post from two years ago, Dec. 25, 2023:

The Nightmare Before Christmas 2023 - Fred Smith Does it Again

December 25, 2023 --

Another year, 
another poem from Fred.
Not a lot of cheer
in a dismal year. 
But do not fear,
We have Fred's Photo with NY Jets Dancers
For us to share
--- Norm's feeble attempt at rhyme

Fred Smith has been posting his xmas messages here and elsewhere for many years. This year's message is a bit gloomy but have no fear, Fred ends with a cheer.

I first met Fred, a testing expert who used to work as a statistician for the old NYCBOE, when he contacted me about getting ICE members to assist in gathering data for his exposures of the evils of testing I think sometime around 2008. He then got involved with groups like GEM and Change the Stakes and was a co-winner with me and Danny Dromm of Leonie Haimson's Skinny Award in 2018 - (June 19 - I'm a Skinny: Honored to be honored by )

Fred Smith has done it again for 2023 with his yearly Xmas special. 

If it's Christmas, it must be Fred Smith at Ed Notes.

Here are his previous years, each with a different theme. 2019 seems to be absent.
Fred is also a statistician for the NY Jets - don't blame him for their absence from the Super Bowl for over 50 years.

Fred Smith convincing Jets dancers to boycott field tests - he's the one in the middle 

 

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Monday, December 25, 2023

The Nightmare Before Christmas 2023 - Fred Smith Does it Again

December 25, 2023 --

Another year, 
another poem from Fred.
Not a lot of cheer
in a dismal year. 
But do not fear,
We have Fred's Photo with NY Jets Dancers
For us to share
--- Norm's feeble attempt at rhyme

Fred Smith has been posting his xmas messages here and elsewhere for many years. This year's message is a bit gloomy but have no fear, Fred ends with a cheer.

I first met Fred, a testing expert who used to work as a statistician for the old NYCBOE, when he contacted me about getting ICE members to assist in gathering data for his exposures of the evils of testing I think sometime around 2008. He then got involved with groups like GEM and Change the Stakes and was a co-winner with me and Danny Dromm of Leonie Haimson's Skinny Award in 2018 - (June 19 - I'm a Skinny: Honored to be honored by )

Fred Smith has done it again for 2023 with his yearly Xmas special. 
 

If it's Christmas, it must be Ed Notes.

Here it is.  Happy holidays and good health in 24.     
Peace.
Fred

The Nightmare Before Christmas 2023

The news flash and photos showed that Santa was dead
When the elves came upon him face down by his sled,
His red cheeks turned white as the new fallen snow.
A voice cried inside me “Please, say it ain’t so.”
The reindeer stood silent—eyes brimming with tears.
Mrs. Claus draped in black.  No more jolly years.
I refused to believe Saint Nick really had died,
But the cables broadcast his sad fate far and wide.

Could it be so surprising to find he was gone
In a year that had been one grim tragi-thon?
Guess his big heart could not endure all the stress,
The suff’ring he saw; an imploding-world mess.
The ongoing bombardment inside of Ukraine;
Now Middle East slaughter again and again;
Children murdered in classrooms with their schoolmates;
The armed killings by sickos in psychotic states.
 
And he knew from the annual missions he flew
Our planet ‘twas rampantly spinning askew.
Disasters both natural and wrought by man,
A list of plagues exceeding the biblical ten:
 
Heat waves and wild fires; floods, drought and tornadoes;
Icebergs floating freely, earth quakes and volcanoes;
Starvation, diseases, poisoned water and air;
Species disappearing, migration despair.
 
Folks sleeping on cold streets and families without homes;
No chimneys for them, nor sweet Christmas Eve poems.
'23 would bring us no large cornucopia.
Was Santa the victim of raging dystopia?
 
And literally, had he done his last laps,
Leaving kids to sit blankly tapping their apps?
So, as I conjectured on his deep pain and grief,
I became more distraught and sought instant relief.
 
A sleeping pill, two shots of rye, thence off to bed,
Fell asleep with the covers fast over my head;
But I couldn’t hide from the ensuing bad dreams,
Flowing through my unconscious in noxious streams.
 
Demon visions came rushing into my brain
Aboard a veritable Walpurgis Night train,
A juggernaut of sleighs from the bowels of hell,
Bearing legions who’d succumbed to a vicious spell;
 
A crazed reindeer named Rudolph with the mug of a hog
Was steering this mad squadron straight into the fog.
First came the invaders, rabid-eyed and on fire,
Destined to become the Proud Boys prison choir.
                                     
Their leader was a flamer with a fat orange face,
Surrounded by trumpeters known as his base,
Spewing satanic curses, purely laden with hate
That howled once again to make Amerika great.
 
There was a blonde screamer blazing down laser beams
Near a scruffy podblaster preaching righteous extremes;
And in the back of the pack, trying to hide,
Were two black-robed impostors stealing a ride;
Then white-collared George Santos popped up to exclaim
He was coming to town—Santa was his real name.
 
Now I threw off my blanket in a cold sweat;
Our country divided. The Master had no regret.
But soon I awoke to a joyous surprise;
Nick’s demise was a cruel crock of big fake news lies.
 
Some are already dubbing it, “Tucker’s Last Stand!”
But whatever you call it, Christmas remains grand.
And we’ll hear jingling bells chime from on high.
Goodness rings eternal.  The truth shall not die.

Here are his previous years, each with a different theme. 2019 seems to be absent.
 
Fred is also a statistician for the NY Jets - don't blame him for their absence from the Super Bowl for over 50 years.

Fred Smith convincing Jets dancers to boycott field tests - he's the one in the middle
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Sunday, December 25, 2022

Fred Smith with his annual XMAS Poem - 2022 version

All manner of assaults devastate Mother Earth.
Corporations put profits above human worth
--- Fred Smith, Xmas 2022 Poem excerpt
another year, 
another poem from Fred.
not a lot of cheer
in a dismal year. 
But we will always have Fred's
Photo with NY Jets Dancers
For Flair
--- Norm's feeble attempt at rhyme

I first met Fred, a testing expert who used to work as a statistician for the old NYCBOE, when he contacted me about getting ICE members to assist in gathering data for his exposures of the evils of testing I think sometime around 2008. He then got involved with groups like GEM and Change the Stakes and was a co-winner with me and Danny Dromm of Leonie Haimson's Skinny Award in 2018 - (June 19 - I'm a Skinny: Honored to be honored by Leonie Haimson along with the Great Danny Dromm and Fred Smith.)

Fred Smith has done it again for 2022 with is yearly Xmas specials.

Here are his previous years, each with a different theme. 2019 seems to be absent.
Fred is also a statistician for the NY Jets - don't blame him for their absence from the Super Bowl for over 50 years.

Fred Smith convincing Jets dancers to boycott field tests - he's the one in the middle

 

Fred Smith with his annual Xmas Poem —2022

 
We have to laugh and be optimistic to keep from crying... SleepyBlush


Christmas 2022 
 
From North Pole to South Pole, ’22’s been a mess.
‘Twas enough to leave Santa in a state of distress.                    
 
All-day cable kept pounding loud noise in his head;
The news sent him spinning and straight to his bed.
 
Reindeer were moaning and his disheartened elves    
Didn’t want to make more toys to re-stock the shelves.
 
The world seemed bereft of its natural rhythm.
Would this holy night be without him or with him?
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All manner of assaults devastate Mother Earth.
Corporations put profits above human worth:
 
Ice caps keep melting; fires destroy forest ranges;
Storms pour down floods, while pols deny plague-like changes.
 
Polarization’s become the norm in our states;
Trash talk flowing freely in degrading debates.
 
Pro-life activists who are against gun restrictions,
Hold both viewpoints despite the clear contradictions.
 
Each hour he was hearing about war in Ukraine;
Continuous suffering and far too much pain.
 
Inflation and hate crimes rising without any end;
School and shopping mall murders tracking a tragic trend.
 
And supreme godly judges from the loftiest heights
Letting state legislatures limit people's birthrights.
 
Another flu cycle and Covid keeps morphing,
As we welcome winter—more folks unmasked and coughing.
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
So, Santa felt down and couldn’t get going,                  
Or force being jolly behind hollow Ho Ho-ing?               
 
Oh, how he missed Macy’s when kids had his ear,
Whispering wishes, “I was good the whole year…”
 
Though he twice-checked all the names on his “Nice” children’s list,
Naughty kids snuck up for presents that had an odd twist.
 
He recalled some notorious brats on his knee,
Whose desires foreshadowed the grown-ups they’d be:   
 
There was a young girl, her first name was Marjorie,
She demanded pet vipers for her menagerie.
 
Lindsey drawled for a Jekyll-Hyde, bobble head doll;
“Just a skunk,” Jim Jordan ordered with a snide snarl.
 
Mitch dreamed of an 8-Ball where all answers were “NO!”
A reply he took with him from those days long ago.
 
Someone pushed little Herschel to run, run and look
For an “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” pop-up coloring book.
 
“I need a chameleon,” Elise squealed chubby-faced.
Color-changing lizards perfectly suited her taste.
  
Joe humbly prayed for stamina and longevity,
Kamala waited her next—all smiles and levity.
 
While Eric was craving a large looking glass,
De Blas wasted his chance—late and hopeless, alas.
 
Andrew chose a fairy tale in which bold lying shows
A wooden boy exposed by the size of his nose.
 
Rudy could not understand the joy and sunshine
Santa brought to the youngsters waiting on line.
He jeered at their belief in this man dressed in red
And scoffed at the notion he flew in a sled.
Yet, when his turn came, Rudy craved a loudspeaker
And a billy club to bully those who were weaker.
 
Away from the crowd, a lonely boy viewed the scene;
Brooding in the back seat of his dad’s limousine.
He loathed the bell ringers just outside of the store,
Collecting coins from kind donors to help out the poor.
He had cruel disdain for social disparities,
But realized he could steal through self-dealing “charities,”
Like shortchanging workers, and rigging the tax game,
And conning saps into signing fat checks in his name.
 
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Meanwhile, Mrs. Claus could be heard gently nagging,  
“Nicholas, get up now, this is no time for dragging.
We’re feeling despair, Dear, the most I can remember,
But that’s no excuse to stay home late in December.”
 
I wish this Eve’s poem could close with unrestrained cheer,
But don’t know for certain whether he’s coming this year.
 
For Santa’s, like Tinker Bell’s, light has grown dim.
Perhaps, the pure love of childhood will replenish him.
 
And his blue eyes will twinkle, and he’ll rev up his sleigh.
My heart says he’ll deliver on this Christmas Day.
 

 
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