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Gobble Gobble, Dead!
The steely talons of the massive turkey scraped the earth in threatening hieroglyphs of terror. My heart was beating like a drum being interrogated by the LAPD as I slowly backed away. A delightful meal seemed very far from the acrimonious avian whose tail trembled with unholy rage. “Gobble!” he cried! His fleshy wattles shook with the bark! I screamed a manly scream (it was nothing like a little sissy girl’s scream!) and beat a retreat on my feet to a…um…swap meet!
Pots, pans, cats, toy velociraptors and tea-cozies I gathered with duct-tape a-shining. I fastened my plated protection as I prepared for battle. Ol’ Tommy would be knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door with that scimitar he called a beak afore the night was through.
The stables stood ominously empty, like a cruel, strangling hand reaching out to pinch your cheek and call you schnookums. I slowly approached, making slightly less noise than a 747 being shoved the wrong way into an elephant. Suddenly, nothing happened! The turkey was asleep in a corner. As I approached, I realized that no sane animal could sleep through that much noise! The turkey had died of coronary heart disease. Not really a surprising thing, considering he was a Butterball.
As I triumphantly lifted the turkey over my head, I was filled with pride. Or hunger. Or both. But, alas! My enthusiasm overwhelmed my common sense, and I lept in the air and hurled the turkey at the ground like a feathered football. For a moment, as I hung suspended in the air, I seriously thought, given my record with sports, that the turkey would miss the ground and simply blast all the way around the world, stunning some random Chinese person. Wrong! The turkey bounced, and with a sick crackle I landed on it with both feet. Standing in a cold stable, with what looked like oversized feathery slippers on my feet, and the distinctive sensation of blood ruining my new socks, I shed a manly, muscular, testosterone-infused…oh, hell, I cried like a baby!
And that was my Thanksgiving.
Christmas 2: Jesus Strikes Back WITH A VENGENCE: Resurrection Syndrome; Insurrection Part ALPHA: The Reckoning!
Christmas! The season of utter nonsense, where the birthday of a 2000 years dead prophet is honored by the exchange of toaster ovens and the ritualized maiming of trees. I feel isolated at Christmas, like that fat, ugly girl at the prom with the leg warmers and the sequined short pants who has had too much to drink and, from the smell, has wet herself. I ponderously ponder the preponderance of pandering pathetic-ness that waylays me at every internal of the day, a screeching bag-lady of broken loves and fevered anxieties, its grimy hands clutching at my lapels as it sends cataracts of drool coursing down its awesomely retarded face. I find that if I don’t tear myself from this mood of gloomy introspection, I begin to enjoy the music of a certain band whose songs consist of an effeminate she-male squalling repetitive ballads of lost love in a whiny monotone. So, I slam in a NIN CD, then, after I pry its fragments from my CD player, I put on some pants and go shopping, losing myself in the infinite corridors of materialistic wonder that we call stores. At Christmas, sales abound, like AIDS in a gay commune, and as children in Africa develop pot bellies from malnutrition, we here in the US cram sugary marshmallow treats down our mouths faster than a lubricated cheetah on a Teflon slide (though, to be fair, a lubricated cheetah on a Teflon slide makes slightly less noise).
When I open my gifts, my doubts vanish. I got money for Christmas! Because nothing says “I love you” like cold, hard cash! Visions of cute fuzzy bunny-kitten hybrids, with retractable claw-ears and shimmering fluffy tails vanish into the void of existential angst-y argyle artifice, and I bury my face in the crisp, filthy bills, seeking warmth and finding only the accumulated gunk of a million filthy hands.
The steely talons of the massive turkey scraped the earth in threatening hieroglyphs of terror. My heart was beating like a drum being interrogated by the LAPD as I slowly backed away. A delightful meal seemed very far from the acrimonious avian whose tail trembled with unholy rage. “Gobble!” he cried! His fleshy wattles shook with the bark! I screamed a manly scream (it was nothing like a little sissy girl’s scream!) and beat a retreat on my feet to a…um…swap meet!
Pots, pans, cats, toy velociraptors and tea-cozies I gathered with duct-tape a-shining. I fastened my plated protection as I prepared for battle. Ol’ Tommy would be knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door with that scimitar he called a beak afore the night was through.
The stables stood ominously empty, like a cruel, strangling hand reaching out to pinch your cheek and call you schnookums. I slowly approached, making slightly less noise than a 747 being shoved the wrong way into an elephant. Suddenly, nothing happened! The turkey was asleep in a corner. As I approached, I realized that no sane animal could sleep through that much noise! The turkey had died of coronary heart disease. Not really a surprising thing, considering he was a Butterball.
As I triumphantly lifted the turkey over my head, I was filled with pride. Or hunger. Or both. But, alas! My enthusiasm overwhelmed my common sense, and I lept in the air and hurled the turkey at the ground like a feathered football. For a moment, as I hung suspended in the air, I seriously thought, given my record with sports, that the turkey would miss the ground and simply blast all the way around the world, stunning some random Chinese person. Wrong! The turkey bounced, and with a sick crackle I landed on it with both feet. Standing in a cold stable, with what looked like oversized feathery slippers on my feet, and the distinctive sensation of blood ruining my new socks, I shed a manly, muscular, testosterone-infused…oh, hell, I cried like a baby!
And that was my Thanksgiving.
Christmas 2: Jesus Strikes Back WITH A VENGENCE: Resurrection Syndrome; Insurrection Part ALPHA: The Reckoning!
Christmas! The season of utter nonsense, where the birthday of a 2000 years dead prophet is honored by the exchange of toaster ovens and the ritualized maiming of trees. I feel isolated at Christmas, like that fat, ugly girl at the prom with the leg warmers and the sequined short pants who has had too much to drink and, from the smell, has wet herself. I ponderously ponder the preponderance of pandering pathetic-ness that waylays me at every internal of the day, a screeching bag-lady of broken loves and fevered anxieties, its grimy hands clutching at my lapels as it sends cataracts of drool coursing down its awesomely retarded face. I find that if I don’t tear myself from this mood of gloomy introspection, I begin to enjoy the music of a certain band whose songs consist of an effeminate she-male squalling repetitive ballads of lost love in a whiny monotone. So, I slam in a NIN CD, then, after I pry its fragments from my CD player, I put on some pants and go shopping, losing myself in the infinite corridors of materialistic wonder that we call stores. At Christmas, sales abound, like AIDS in a gay commune, and as children in Africa develop pot bellies from malnutrition, we here in the US cram sugary marshmallow treats down our mouths faster than a lubricated cheetah on a Teflon slide (though, to be fair, a lubricated cheetah on a Teflon slide makes slightly less noise).
When I open my gifts, my doubts vanish. I got money for Christmas! Because nothing says “I love you” like cold, hard cash! Visions of cute fuzzy bunny-kitten hybrids, with retractable claw-ears and shimmering fluffy tails vanish into the void of existential angst-y argyle artifice, and I bury my face in the crisp, filthy bills, seeking warmth and finding only the accumulated gunk of a million filthy hands.
