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Twas the Night Before Christmas, at 60 State Street

Written by: Ron Searls, Co-Founder

With apologies to Clement Moore or to whomever was the original author,
that authorship having been recently disputed by persons with nothing
better to do.

Resemblances to any person, living or dead, although slyly hinted at,
are merely co-incidental, since this is a work of some fiction.

Twas the night before Christmas, at 60 State Street,
Our ads were still running, not skipping a beat,
And ad ops had gone to The Place for some cheer,
Even Scott took his hands off his head for a beer.

Our routers were decked out with garlands and bows,
The Zombie had tinsel all hung from his nose,
And I at my desk, after downing six shots,
Had nightmares our clicks were all coming from bots.

When out in the big room there arose such commotion,
I woke up with a curse and got into motion,
Past Blackhole Sonata and Ivory Watchtower,
I flew like a book on Amazon drone power.

The moon shining in over Government Center,
Shone on leftover lunches and someone’s old dinner,
When what to my eyes did appear through my stupor,
But eight tiny Zipcars and a limo from Uber.

With a driven young leader, hair oiled back and slick,
I knew in a moment it was Old Alt Ric.
Faster than billings his management team came,
And he emailed, and texted, and Skyped them by name!

“Now Denton! Now Jungal! Now Wala and Tregoe!
On Mohring! On Marsland! On Rafer and Grabo!
The world’s an ad network, never let the mau fall!
Now advertise! Advertise! Advertise all!”

As a blind man does stumble about in a room,
Till he falls through a door he can’t see in the gloom,
So into the break room the outriders flew,
Each had his own theory, and PowerPoints too.

And then, in a twinkling, as I stood in the hall,
Heard the entourage braying and beginning to brawl,
As I drew back my head, and was turning around,
Out the break room hall door Alt Ric came with a bound.

He was dressed in a hoodie and sandals and shorts,
Had a phone to each ear and a phablet of sorts,
A sack full of Red Bull he’d just dropped to the floor,
And another of Clown Shoes he’d brought from a store.

His eyes – how far focused! His Android kept jangling!
He talked really fast, conversations mangling,
His droll twisted mouth let you know how he ran,
As he opened our UI and made an ad plan.

He kept pushing more ads while he searched for some nosh,
Screamed, “I’ve got an idea! “Where’s Zegel?” “Where’s Josh?”
He had a wan face, and laughed with a snicker,
And swayed like a snake though his tongue was much quicker.

He was skinny and pale, the high priest of us geeks,
And I laughed when I saw him, and his white pasty cheeks!
A wink of his eye as our fridge he now raided,
Soon gave me to know he had not become jaded.

He was spare with his words, and seemed lost on a quest,
Planning demos of demos that would demo the best,
Mumbling “software as a service”, “let’s hype FBX”,
Which Dewey once said was more fun than K’nex.

Then they all left for London, New York and San Fran,
Seattle and Singapore, flying fast as fast can,
And I heard him exclaim, o’er the Post Office clock,
“Happy Christmas to all! Hey, Nanigans, you rock!”

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