Time to stuff your fat fucking faces with bread and stuffing, washed down with thick brown gravy and copious amount of red wine.
On this day, Americans celebrate giving food to Indians near the water in exchange for their corn. We also, apparently, gave them fish/turkey to eat — alongside a cornucopia filled with small snacks and had a fine meal. Pumpkin pie! That was the first Thanksgiving, served hot more than 400 years ago — or 300 — no one really knows. Since then we’ve taken this tradition and kept to its centered purpose, to pack tightly into one house and SUPER SPREAD the COVID-19 virus.
Yours truly will be presiding over the stove, master chef at work, toiling hard to perfect his already perfect stuffing — alongside several other things. I enjoy to cook because it gives me something technical to do and because I’m not slothful and prefer industry over rest.
This is not a blog post to do with being thankful, or cornily (double entendre alert!) praising the merits of my fucking readers. No thanks to any of that. This is a thankless job and you readers have had it too good for too long. Fuck off. Nevertheless, I can see how you might be thankful — having chanced across this small corner of light in a sea of darkness — provided with sagely (double entendre alert!) advice during a place and time when the world is bat-shit nuts. On that point, I am NOT THANKFUL for this era I live in and certainly not thankful to Pfizer, Moderna and all of the other fucked faces trying to stick me with needles. Along that train of thought, I am NOT THANKFUL (all caps for psychotic emphasis) to most of the people on Twitter. I hate you. I truly do. Come to think of it, I’m definitely not thankful for a fuckload of things and often wonder if I am more thankful or less?
Being thankful for things denotes comfort and, dare I say, laziness. I want MOAR, which is why I trade like a banshee and scheme up new ways to make money at every chance afforded to me. Being thankful for shit is on par with saying “this is good enough for me.” INCORRECT SIR. I will not acquiesce to these small offerings and accept them as payment in full. I request MOAR.
Over here in Cary, NC the weather has moderated. It’s a comfy 55 degrees, warm enough to walk the dogs but cold enough also to place the cider to chill on the deck. My daughter is here from college and my eldest son will be in attendance too. This is the first year two of my children have left the house — leaving behind the youngest who is a good boy but with terroristic tendencies.
Alas, I could write forever and it would be a waste of my time and thoughts — frankly speaking. I wish you GOOD LUCK on this Thanksgiving Day and hope you find it to be acceptable. Comport yourselves like gentlemen, be sure to wind up your pocket watch (to tell the time moron) and don’t drink too heavily. A gentleman of any substance never permits others to see the cracked veneer of complete authorization patriarchal control.
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