>Twas the night before Christmas
>And all through the bunker
>The scent of oil and powder
>Lulled everyone into a deep slumber
>Mines were placed by the doors and chimenys with care
>In case skin walkers or soup boys would dare
>Break into their homes in an eerie fog
>or take all their guns and shoot all their dogs
>The S.T.A.L.K.E.R.s drank vodka for the rads in their bones
>Reminiscing of friends lost to the zone
>/k/ommandos all dreamed of range wenches
>Select fire weapons and reloading benches
>Gear guys in plate carriers and poor guys in alice
>Rich guys showing off gucci gear just for malice
>Trips act high and mighty in all of the threads
>When some should have worn helmets to protect their heads
>When the klaxon alarm rang out with a clatter
>Everyone grabbed their guns to see what was the matter
>Away to the window they flew like a flash
>Bayonets fixed and masks for the gas
>Floodlights reflected off the new fallen snow
>And all the /k/ommandos looked for the glow
>When what to their computer strained eyes should appear
>But a truck laden with gifts to rein in the new year
>With an out of shape man so portly and thick
>I knew in an instant he hadn't once visited /fit/
>With huffing and puffing out of the truck he came
>And handed out firearms as he called them by name
>Here's Kalashnikovs and FALs for the boys in Rhodesia
>Here's Mausers and Springfields for /milsurp/ to please ya
>To the top of the porch to the top of the wall
>Fire away fire away fire away all
>As no-guns before the request of 'post guns' fly
>When they meet with ridicule and sulk off to cry
>Incredibly up to the rooftop the fat man he flew
>Munching Doritos and chugging his Dew
>And then with a creaking and cracking they heard on the roof
>The crashing and blundering that ended with poof
>As they pulled their heads in and turned around
>The gift giver fell through the ceiling with a loud sound
>He was dressed all in surp gear from his clothes to his pack
>Sweat stains apparent in his underarms and crack
>A crate of nuggets he had brought on the floor he now slid
>And he looked like an arms peddler as he pryed open the lid
>His eyes how they were bloodshot
>His cheeks were flushed
>He started to hand out boxes of ammo
>And unregistered machine guns with a hush
>His gear was all mismatched and his rifle was worn
>And his rough breath smelled like the drink made of corn
>Bandoliers of bullets he had wrapped around his hips
>And to the /k/ommando's annoyance he had mags labled clips
>He had a broad face and an even broader belly
>One so round it couldn't even be penetrated with HE
>He was very overweight certainly not thin
>And he amused himself with a grenade that he'd pull and replace the pin
>He spoke in broken Russian and went straight to work as the clock was tick tocking
>Ignoring the /arg/ ego circle jerk and filling all the stockings
>Then with a jerk of his head and and a wiggle of his toes
>Giving a belch, up the hole in the roof he rose
>He climbed in his truck and revved the throttle
>And began to drive away while chugging from a bottle
>But I heard him exclaimed as he pulled out of sight
>Cowabunga it is and to all a good night!

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!