Hey, where the hell did everybody go?
Oh, right. Thanksgiving. I guess everyone’s travelling, or making holiday food, or out buying big-assed pants to fit their bloated cheeks into after the gorging tomorrow.
Well, not me, folks — I’m sticking right damned here. I’m not driving or flying around anywhere like a headless fricking turkey this weekend. I’m not cooking — or undercooking, as the case would almost certainly be — any birds of any sort, or potatoes, or any food more complicated than a microwave burrito. And the ‘big pants’… well, okay, fine. I might need those, actually. I’m still having Thanksgiving dinner, after all. At a nice restaurant, even. Maybe I’ll go pantsless altogether. Oh, mama.
See, and that’s the way to do Thanksgiving, people.
(No, no — I meant ‘eating at a restaurant’. Not ‘pantsless’. You big silly.
Although, there’s certainly nothing wrong with both. But not at the same time. It frightens the waiters. And trust me — there’s no easy way to explain away cranberry stains on your underwear. Not good.)
Anyway, what I meant was, getting stuffing crammed down your gullet by strangers at a restaurant is the only way to have stuffing crammed down your gullet, if you ask me. No traipsing all over creation, no slaving over an oven, no weird drunken uncles to deal with — I’m telling you, people, it doesn’t get any better. Not without tequila and redheaded strippers, anyway.
(But that’s not really a fair comparison — there’s not a holiday on the planet that can live up to that shit. Even those funky ones that last a whole week or more. Mmmmm… strippers.)
Of course, I used to do the ‘traditional’ Thanksgiving thing — drive like hell on Wednesday, spend the weekend with the family, stuff myself stupid, then drive like bloated hell back home on Sunday. It’s fricking exhausting — you should be refreshed after a long weekend, not longing for a nice, quiet coma. So I’m glad to be done with all of that. Or at least far away to make it geographically ludicrous to think about.
The wife and I even tried making our own Thanksgiving Day feast one year.
Yeah. One year.
Jeez, that was a pain in the giblets. All that cooking, and cleaning, and washing up… and hey, I did stuff, too! I think I did, anyway. I distinctly remember opening a can of cranberry sauce. Maybe that was a different year; it’s all hazy and forgetty now.
So, anyway, tomorrow’s a big, complicated day for a lot of folks. For me, it’s just a delicious, gut-stretching start to a lazy four-day weekend. Don’t all of you get jealous at once, now. Form a single-file line, there — I’ll get to everyone. No pushing.
Meanwhile, for those of you who celebrate the Pilgrims’ stunning victory over a bunch of guys in loincloths and bearskins, happy Thanksgiving. Me, I don’t know quite how I feel about the message. I’m just in it for the turkey. Professionally prepared, at a place where I don’t have to wash the dishes afterwards. Now that’s something to be thankful for, kiddies. Catch you later, gobblers.Permalink | 5 Comments