T’Was the night before Christmas And there was only one small glitch The athletes were in stinging pain Ripped hands are a bitch!   They tossed and turned, raw wounds stinging in their beds While visions of thin, smooth calluses danced in their heads And I with my polysporin that got smeared all over my cap Had reluctantly settled down for a messy winter’s nap   When near the pull-up bars there arose such a clatter It was obvious to all nothing was the matter Santa Class had RIPT kits for all hands to be tamed And he whistled and shouted and called the products by name:   Now Daily Dose, now Quick Fix, now Grind Stone too! On bees...