A Visit from von Finckenstein

(with deep, deep, deep apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, Not even a louse.

The cable bill was flung on the ledge with despair

In hopes new antennas would grab HD off air.

Ivan in his kerchief, and Len in his cap

Had settled back down, for their post-hearing nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

sounded just like that douche yelling "local TV matters."

Away to the window I flew with a shoe

Thought maybe I'd nail the "TV tax" guy too.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a sterile appearance quite like Gatineau.

When, what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a passel of bureaucrats looking severe.

And their driver, so precise and rigid of spine,

I knew in a moment twas von Finckenstein.

He mumbled and shouted in such a great barrage,

saying "value for signal,  not fee for carriage!"

"On Rogers! On Global! You too, CTV!

Bring me solutions, not money for free!"

"To the back rooms! Committees! There's deals to be made!

Throw out an idea, not just a grenade!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

came reams of paper, a snowstorm in the sky,

Up to the house-top the courses they flew,

With a sleigh full of arguments, and Jim Shaw too.

He was green, with a twinkling, and his face in a pinch

And I knew there and then that this dude was the Grinch.

"Here's what I want," he shook with his fist,

"You better sit down, cause it's quite a long list."

Von Finck whispered nervous, "we should move along,"

But Shaw slapped him back, saying, "this is my song!"

He pawed at my aerial, wrecking the mount, and claimed

that Canadians just couldn't count.

"Let the market decide, stay out of our way! 

But don't dare try to tell us how much they should pay!"

Shaw poked through the sack and found all U.S. shows,

and he shook his green head and said, "Finky, this blows."

Von Finck, how he brooded! Til they forged a detente,

and Finky admitted "well, that's all they want."

"I try to encourage, cajole and yes, shame.

But you know, our broadcasters are unspeakably lame."

The Grinch poked the sack and said, "most of it's junk,"

Von Finck sighed and nodded, said, "and thus, there's my funk."

It was round about now that these two got my goat,

I announced my appearance by clearing my throat.

Their eyes snapped to me and I felt a great dread,

And I wished with each fibre that I'd just stayed in bed,

"Who are you?" They demanded, with no ounce of fear.

"Where's your written remarks and notice to appear?"

I held my ground, said, "I just wish to note,

I know I'm supposed to just work the remote.

But now that you're here, I'll try a new tack,

Can you tell me what's there for me in that sack?"

The Grinch shrugged, and mumbled and von Finck went pale,

Then Shaw booked for a profile from the Globe & Mail.

Relief flooded through me, there'd be no background noise,

From the guy who hawks porn but hates Trailer Park Boys.

I then fixed my gaze on the man of the year,

Hoping his solutions I soon would hear,

But he shook his head sadly and said with a sob,

"Skinny basic? Unbundling? Man I hate my job."

So I patted his head, and offered a snort.

And he admitted he didn't have much to report.

So I said, "I'll be brief. And let's start with a fact.

Are we still trying to follow the broadcasting act?"

His eyes started glazing, and I held up my hand,

Said I'd keep my promise, and make short my demand.

"On gaffer, on seamstress, on writer, and grip,

On actor and P.A. and director so hip,

When we come before you, you seem so polite,

But like we don't really matter, and that, sir, aint right."

For it's we who make things, we haul and make fast.

We don't just sell pipe, or simulcast,

So when you consider a future direction,

Please Santa von Finck, can we have some protection?"

He stared straight ahead and he said not a word,

For a moment the whole thing seemed rather absurd,

Then, in a low voice he said something bold,

"Man." Said von Finck, "is it freaking cold."

So there in the midst of the holiday heather,

Two hosers a-sat, discussing the weather.

The hour grew late, and I ran out of beer,

And the man rose to leave, and I wished him good cheer.

But I heard him exclaim, as he rode out of sight,

"Licence renewals in April! Man will that be a fight."

Happy Holidays everybody. Be safe.  DMc