Way up there, out on Mount Krumpit. Alone in the blizarding snow,
Lurks the well known figure, the one and only Grinch, which but a few times, you have been shown.
But would you believe me, if I told you this, that he's been a Grinch for more then just Christmas?
He's been around other holidays too, my dear boy or girl. But he particularly hates Saint Nicholas.
But we've all seen that story, in the snow with the trees
filled with lights and songs humming in the air like bees.
We've seen the insanity and the psychosis of this What.
But see everything? Why, you've seen anything but.
The Grinch has to come out, you know child. Otherwise he would be forgotten.
And like anybody else, that's a grim fate. Even the Grinch believes that'd be rotten.
On Halloween, he'll terrorize the whole Who nation! Lugging his paraphernalia wagon along.
"A Grinch Night Ball!" he proclaims as he dances on the plantation. And by sun rise, all but the memory is gone.
But that memory, little friend, is what he strives for. He needs it! Or else the Whos forget.
They begin to think "He isn't so bad!" and so they draw close like a magnet.
But the Grinch, he fears the memory of his past. Pointed Laughter and whirring blades of pain!
It drives a man mad, my friend, and so he hides. That's why he isn't considered sane.
Little Cindy Lou Who, who on occasions, two, warmed the heart of the What.
Things where fine for the first week or so…but then trouble started to become Blhat.
The Grinch, he saw flashes of insight from his past. A hand gesture from mittens, you see,
Looks only like two fingers, and with expressive gestures that last, he thought once again "They're pointing at me."
Every little crane removing ornaments, preparing for the New Who Year,
Made the same whirring and buzzing sound as the razor that fills him with fear.
So without a trace, he leaves once again. And in a month's time in solitude,
His maniacal mind is made up, I'm afraid. His heart shrinks with eve-
"SHUT UP ALREADY!" Shouted the Grinch. He flung a bottle of 1947 at the ceiling. "I deserve a little peace and quiet, you blithering blockhead." He sighed, relaxing back on the busted up piece of junk, cobweb, ash and dirt that he called a sofa. "The rhyming was getting' on my nerves. …Well…Lets see what's on the boob toob." He says to himself as he picks up a remote. He presses a few buttons, aiming it at an old TV that he had just recently found. It remains blank. "...Beh. What, this thing ain't got any juice in it?" He eyes the back of the remote, then smacks it against his hands to take a look at the batteries. Two Double Doubleyous. He licks the battery along the end. "…hrmm…" he says to himself. "Well…looks like there's just enough power to turn it on." Flinging the remote at the screen, hitting the power button and turning it on. The Screen has what can only barely be considered 'reception'. "My god…My cameras along the snowing parts of this blasted mountain show less white sprinkles then this! …All right. Lets see what we can do here." He stands, looking around. "I hope I've got some pipes here or some coat hangers so I don't have to go outside and fetch it."