Twas the day before Christmas

And viewers at home were beginning to grouse.

“Where’s Earl? Kenneth the page? Dr. Cox? And Dwight?

Why are we left all alone Thursday night?

What happened to Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert?”

They stood by their writers and went off the air.

“So there’s no ‘Desperate Housewives,’ with its plot lines so juicy?

If this strike lasts much longer, we may just watch Jim Belushi!”

Lying in bed, I couldn’t have agreed more

As I suffered through reruns till I started to snore

With my remote in its cozy and I in pajamas

Emblazoned with the likeness of Lorenzo Lamas.

When outside my house was the worst sounding thing,

Like “The Hills’ ” Heidi Montag attempting to sing.

I peered out the window while still in my bed

To find eight pretty people chained to a sled.

They seemed frightened and cold, with nary a mitten,

And each represented shows that aren’t written.

Menacing them with a whip in his hand

Was something so evil it must be The Man.

“On Seacrest! On Probst! On Carrie Ann Inaba!

On girls from that ‘Laguna Beach’ spinoff ‘Newport Harbor’!”

They ran and they pulled with all of their might

But they’re reality stars, they couldn’t take flight.

They lost all control, Seacrest really is lame,

And through my living room wall, The Man quickly came.

Wiping gunk from my eyes, out of the bedroom I flew.

I glared and I screamed, “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Nick Counter, president of the AMPTP,

The group of studios and networks that won’t pay writers a fee

To put their shows online, where more people will watch

Alongside videos of guys getting hit in the crotch.

Why pay them at all? Who needs all those writers?

We can show chefs, models, singers and Ultimate Fighters!”

I stuttered and stammered, “Why are you in my home?”

He said, “Don’t ask me kid, this is your stupid poem.

But since I’m here, do you really miss scripted shows?

Let’s be honest. So far, this TV season blows.

You wanted Tony Soprano rolled out on a gurney,

Not sitting in a diner, listening to Journey.

‘Nip/Tuck’s’ dark and bleak, where it once was so glossy.

And why’s Dr. Troy starting to sound like an Aussie?

“Cavemen” and “Carpoolers” lacked any reason.

Jack Bauer couldn’t even save his own season.

‘Two and a Half Men’? Don’t pretend that you care.

The same goes for ‘ER.’ Is that still on the air?

‘CSIs,’ ‘Law & Orders,’ there’s too many by half.

And when’s the last time ‘Rescue Me’ made you laugh?

‘Prison Break’s’ broken. McDreamy’s a bore.

Sitting through ‘Heroes’ feels like a chore.

And ‘Viva Laughlin’? Who’d they think that would fool?

Everyone but Hugh Jackman just looked like a tool.”

I admitted those shows weren’t always great,

But they beat watching fat people try to lose weight.

Or faded celebrities learn how to dance.

Or a bisexual Vietnamese girl look for romance.

Or wrestlers and rappers and their crazy broods.

Or rich, busty housewives who should stabilize their moods.

Or people you don’t know being given new houses.

Or fame-hungry couples swapping their spouses.

Or Bret Michaels with strippers just aching for sex.

Or dozens of other reality train wrecks.

Then with all of my strength, I held down The Man,

Made him watch hours and hours of E!’s “Sunset Tan”

And scores of other shows too lame to mention.

I made sure he gave them his utmost attention.

I held him there for what seemed like days

Until he had seen the error of his ways.

“I swear to you, there was nothing insidious.

We had no idea these shows were so hideous.”

I let The Man go, I could tell he was beat

And I heard him exclaim as he ran down the street

“I’ll give the writers what it takes to get them back to work.

As long as I never again have to watch ‘I Love New York’!”

Christopher Lawrence’s Life on the Couch column appears on Mondays. E-mail him at clawrence@reviewjournal.com.