A Good Man

    I had planned to publish this yesterday, but I ended up spreading mulch (which is pretty much what I do here).  By the time I was done with that, though, I turned on football. First I watched Pittsburgh drop one to the Bills. Then the Eagles absolutely laid an egg in Tampa Bay.  

    Just like that, Pennsylvania said goodbye until next season. 

    At any rate, by then I was too tired to write. And, considering I don’t get paid to do these things, I decided to hang on until today. 

    Yesterday was the birthday for the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.  Ever since it became a federal holiday in the 80s, I honor the memory of a man who would be shocked at the race politics being played out today by the likes of “Reverend” Al Charlatan…err, Sharpton and his ilk.  Content of character and color of skin, you know. 

A flawed man.
But, a good man.

    Anyway, as most of you know, I do not like Donald Trump (now there’s a segue for you). I think he would be a disaster were he to move into the Oval Office again (he won’t).  

    Far too many people see him as the Trump of 2016 instead of the Trump of 2024. The cultish adoration slobbered on him by a disturbing number of people is…uh…disturbing (remember, I don’t get paid for this.  I can afford to be lazy when searching for a clever synonym). 

    While I thought he was a good president, until he wasn’t (in 2020), his childish antics and sophomoric egomania were always maddening to me.      

    Thus, I find myself in an uncomfortable position where I actually have to take Orange Jesus Bone Spurs’ side when attacked from the Left and Right. 

    What’s most perplexing is when I have to defend him from Republicans (a party of which I am not a member).  

    I even got into an argument on Twitter/X (where else?) with a DeSantis supporter. 

    It’s Bizarro World. 

    My first argument stemmed from the fact that four pinheads in Colorado decided he should not be on the ballot.  This was because of his association with the so-called “insurrection” on January 6th.

Insurrection

     

Not an insurrection

    

    Never mind that he was not charged with insurrection, to say nothing of being found guilty of insurrection. The aforementioned pinheads didn’t like him (Orange Man Bad) so, to save democracy, they must ensure voters have no choice.

    Then, a looney from Maine followed suit.  I guess all that moose semen got to her head.

"And how do you think she got it?  Yeah, baby, yeah!"

    Predictably, there were calls in Red States for the Cadaver-in-Chief to be left off state ballots because he has failed to protect this country from invasion at the Southern Border. 

    While I agree that he hasn’t, that nonsense shouldn’t be allowed, either.  I maintain that it should be the voters who decide, not those afflicted with Trump or Biden Derangement Syndrome.

    I pointed this out on Twitter/X and was met with howls of protest from those not on Team Cheeto.  If Trump wasn't an option, it would only help their girl, girl, or Doughnut Eater. Methinks their motives are a little suspect.

"Naw, I'm out."

      A second occasion occurred in an argument on Twitter/X (where else?) with a pronoun mental deficient last week. 

    Brian Kilmeade, in a radio interview with Jamie Raskin, said nothing when the congressman quipped that Trump advised people to “drink Clorox” to combat the Chinese Flu. 

    I asked Kilmeade how he could let his guest get away with such an outrageous statement. 

    Two imbeciles wrote that Trump did say that. 

    No, I replied, he did not.  Rather, he asked if injecting disinfectant under the skin (itself a ludicrous statement and typical of Big Orange) would be effective.  

    I challenged my…err…challengers (remember, no pay, no fancy synonyms) to provide me a video of Trump saying “drink Clorox.”  If they could, I’d admit I was wrong and would retract my objections. 

    Of course, they couldn’t.  Mostly, because he didn’t say it.  Instead, one sent me a video of Trump opining about the efficacy of injecting disinfectant.  She/he/it said that was proof. When I replied that it was not the same, he/she/it replied there was no difference. 

    At that point, I waved off from further debate. I knew there was zero point in going on, even though words mean things.  But, true believers (on both sides) will twist anything to suit their agendas. 

    In any event, as Election Day inexorably approaches, I have no doubt that I’ll be forced to stick up for The Donald again. He seriously can’t help saying stupid things.

"Well, I am a stable genius."

 

    But, I will continue to do my best to point out when unfair attacks are launched against him.  Even though I desperately wish he would just shut up, go away, and not make me do so.  Although, I know he won’t. 

    You see, like Dr. King, he’s a flawed man.

    Just not a good one.

The Adultery Song

Happy New Year!

 

    I had planned a series of holiday-themed blog posts as we slid towards 2024 (which I, sadly, predict will be a shitshow of a year.  Hope I’m wrong, but…).  However, it was not to be as I was gripped in a very busy schedule of sitting on my expanding keister, eating trail mix (with M&Ms!), and watching Netflix. 

"Shitshow it may be but I promise that it will be the greatest shitshow known to man, especially since I will be its leading star and will provide you with only the highest quality of shit known to man even if it comes from Sleepy Joe's diapers which, quite frankly, is nothing that I would ever consent to wear because they don't come in orange and besides who is a much better choice as the Republican nominee than me because Sanctimonious is only, what?, five ten and makes me marvel that they can stack shit that high." 

    So, to those who looked forward to me waxing poetic, my apologies.  Incidentally, you should seek psychological help immediately.

    I did consider giving you my opinion on the various holiday songs out there.  But, since it’s now January, I’ll hold off for another eleven months.  

    In other words, you’ll need to be patient to find out why songs such as I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus give me the creeps.

Insert "blowing" for "kissing" and you'll know why it gives me the creeps.

    In a related vein, though, I’ll take this opportunity to discuss my all-time least favorite song, which is not Christmas-related:  The Pina Colada Song.

Which is actually called Escape.  Who knew?

    Oh, I know, most of you probably love this thing.  If radio airtime is any indicator, countless others also agree it’s a smash.  Whether on the radio or in movies such as Grownups, Rupert Holmes breezy little ditty is quite popular.

Which is a movie for which I don't particular care. 
And not just because Adam Sandler is in it. 
Okay, it's because Adam Sandler is in it. 
 I don't like Adam Sandler. 
I said what I said.

    Well, it’s not popular with me.  I have to ask those of you who may disagree:  have you ever listened to the lyrics?  If so, can you draw any conclusions?  If you did, you’d know that it’s not a sappy little tune with oh-so-cute lyrics

    Whenever I hear its opening bits, I immediately shut it off and go off in search of anything, Rap, PBS, Gospel music, static...anything.

Gregorian chants will do in a pinch

    I call it the Adultery Song.

    Think about it.  In the beginning, the singer is bitching about how humdrum his life has become so he looks at a personals ad while his wife snores next to him.

    Intrigued by the possibilities of one in particular (which mentions drinking pina coladas…hee, hee, hee), he pens a reply with the intention of setting up a rendezvous with a potential paramour.

   He finally makes his escape (ohhhhhhhhhh, "escape."  Now I get it!) to a place called O’Malley’s, a bar which I’m sure smells like Old Spice, Jean Nate, and middle-aged desperation.  Only to find his wife sitting there.  Whaddya know?  She was the one who placed the original ad.

"Hey there, sailor, new in town?"

   Oh, my!  What fun!  What a smashing bit of hilarity!  His wife was just as miserable as he!  But, joy, oh blissful joy!  They both like drinking pina coladas, getting caught in the rain, something to do with dunes, and making love at midnight.

    At least that’s what he said.  There could only be three explanations:  1.  He genuinely likes all of that crap, 2.  He’d say anything if it’d get him laid, or 3.  He desperately wanted to avoid having his penis sliced off by who quite frankly was looking to do a little of the wild thing herself.

    Neither one of them was pissed off!

    If you come right down to it, the both of them are pretty pathetic.  Instead of working on themselves, they both turned to a personals ad in search of excitement and mixed drinks.

    Instead of laughing it off, why the two of them don’t walk out of the gin joint in a huff and immediately seek divorce lawyers is beyond me.

    What’s worse? I actually like pina coladas.

But, I'm staying right here.  It's raining outside.  Plus, it's dark at midnight.

  

Watching the Monkeys

At it's narrowest point, it's only seven nautical miles. 
It's still a long swim. 
Unless you're Aquaman.

 

                                                                                  

"See?  Makes you want to respect me, huh?"
"Naw, you still smell like fish."

    The Strait of Gibraltar is a narrow strip of water which separates Europe from Africa.  It is the only shipping route from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea.

    To the south is Morocco and, to the north, Gibraltar, a British protectorate since 1713.  In addition to locals, all of whom speak English, and day workers from Spain, a troop of macaques, also known as Barbary Apes, inhabit the “Rock.”

Wrong Rock.

    In reality, these apes aren’t apes at all.  They are, in fact, tailless monkeys and the only animals of their kind living on the European continent.  Originally from the Atlas and Rif Mountains of Morocco, these mischievous critters are as much a fixture in Gibraltar as the many souvenir shops, pubs, and restaurants which pepper the small territory.

    I served aboard the aircraft carrier, USS America, in the last few years of the 1970s.  During that time, my ship made two cruises to support American national security interests in the Mediterranean.  Naturally, we used the “STROG” to come and go from the United States to our area of operations.

Because that's how we be in the Sixth Fleet

    On the night of September 9^th, 1979, we transited west through the Strait of Gibraltar.  Our time protecting Europe’s southern flank was at an end.  We were heading back to our homeport of Norfolk, Virginia.  It would be the last time for me as a member of America’s crew.

    I would return to the “Med” seven years later, but that’s another story altogether.

    While at breakfast the morning before our transit, I brought up the subject of the macaques with a newly-reported crewmember.

    “Oh, yeah,” I said as I reached for a bottle of ketchup with which I hoped to kill the taste of powdered eggs, “there’s a couple hundred of those things living on the Rock.”

"Take five gallons of water, add to fifty pounds of powdered eggs, add a pinch of paprika. garnish with a liberal dose of salmonella, serve with diarrhea.  Voila!  It's what's for breakfast!"

    “So?  That’s a problem?” the rookie asked.

    “Well, they’re a crafty buncha monkeys.  They could easily swim over and climb aboard the ship.  If that happens, who knows what damage they could do?”

    My companion’s eyes widened to dinner plates.  I knew the hook had been set.

    Mustering all the bravado three years as a savvy crewmember could bring, I continued, “The Senior Section Leader is drafting up a watch bill which will put in place a ‘Shipboard Security Watch’ from midnight to four tomorrow morning.  We call it the ‘Monkey Watch.’”

"So, whaddya say we swim over to that aircraft carrier over there?"
"Actually, I'd rather go sniff tourists."
"Yeah, but Biden's beat us to it."

    “Why then?”

    I shook my head.

    “Because that is when we’ll be going through the strait and at most risk, of course.”
    “Won’t we be going pretty fast?”

    “Not maximum speed, but plenty fast enough.”
    “But, isn’t the strait seven mi-“
    “They’re pretty sneaky bugge-look, don’t you care about your shipmates?”

    “Well, sure.  I’m just wondering ab-“

    “Good.  Since you’re the new guy, the Chief volunteered you for the duty.”

    “Really?” He looked dismayed.  “Where do I report?”

    “Don’t worry.  Just come down to the shop at 11:30 tonight.  As you know, I work nights.  I’ll help you out.”

    “Well, okay.  I guess.”

    “Hey, could you pass the Texas Pete?  The ketchup ain’t doing it.”

 

    That evening at 11:30 (well, 2330, but I’m cutting those who don’t know military time some slack), USS America’s indispensable Monkey Watch stepped into the shop.  He looked a little nervous, but his working uniform was immaculate.  I guess he figured that, if he was going to represent our department, he may as well look like a recruiting poster.

    Steve, our Departmental Clerk, stood next to me.  An hour prior to the arrival of Airman Apprentice Gilbert Gullible, he had gone down to the ship’s detachment of Marines.  Asking the bemused Corporal of the Guard to play along, he relayed our plans for the evening.

    The corporal (who was an actual corporal) grinned and said in a thick southern drawl, “Oh, don’t you worry.  I’ll make sure that your baby squid is properly posted.”

    “So,” our ‘victim’ asked, “where do I need to go?”

    As seriously as I could, I said, “We need to go down to the Marine Detachment.  The Corporal of the Guard will post you.”
    That brightened him up some.  “Do I get to carry a gun?”

    Our clerk jumped in.  “Of course not.  You’ll get a billy club and a whistle.  They’re just monkeys, you know.”

    Then, to me, he asked, “Are you sure he can do this?”

    I gravely nodded my head.

    “You know, because this isn’t a game.”

    Then, to him, “All right, let’s go.  Jeez, tie your boots, man.”

 

    Minutes later, the Corporal of the Guard had him standing at attention.  He looked him up and down, intensely scrutinizing his appearance and that of his uniform.  He yanked down on his sleeves and peered at the tops of his (tied) boots.

    “Well, you’re no Marine, I’ll say that.  But, since you’re a Navy guy, I guess you’ll do.”

    He tossed him a white web belt with a nightstick, helmet, and a whistle.  “Here, put these on and follow me.”

"Whew!  Good thing I put on clean underwear."

    Just before they hit the ladder leading to the weather deck, the Marine turned to us.

    “I’ve got him, gentleman.  You swabbies can go drink coffee and color your nails while he’s protecting us all from roving bands of monkeys.”

    Well, even though this was all a joke, I suppose a Marine couldn’t help being a Marine.

    Still, a cup of coffee sounded pretty good.

"Eff those Marines, amirite?"
"Right on.  But, we still get to paint our nails, though, right?"
"And shave our legs."

 

    We soon shared some-what else?-coffee in the Department Office.  Steve told me what would be happening down below as the ship sped towards the Atlantic.

    “They’ll put him next to the portside whale boat.  He’ll be told that, if he sees anything suspicious, he’s to blow his whistle and one of the Marines will come up to investigate.”
    “What’s the billy club for then?”

    “To bash himself in the head when he realizes he’s been played.”
    I laughed.  “Can’t believe he fell for it.”

    Steve shrugged.  “New guys.”

    I set my empty cup down.  “Gotta get to work,” I said. “How long do we leave him there?”

    “Well, if he doesn’t figure it out, he’s on until three-

thirty or until the Marines let him go.”

    “Good grief, nobody could be that gullible.”

    “I didn’t think anyone could be that gullible to fall for this thing in the first place.”

    I nodded.  “Breakfast later?”

    “You bet.  I know a cook who got his hands on real eggs.”

    As I walked past an open door leading to the portside weather deck, I heard a frantic whistling, followed by a loud pounding of feet flying up a ladder.

    Huh.  I wondered how ticked off he’d be when he found out.

 

EPILOGUE:  Our Monkey Watch remained on post for an hour and a half.  He finally figured things out when a handful of Marines, wearing gas masks and grunting, “Ook, ook, ook,” approached him from the dark. 

I avoided him until the ship arrived home two weeks later.

  

 

      

 

        

 

 

 

    

Turning Point

     8:00 pm, Friday, April 4th, 1980.

    We were at Milton's Pizza in Virginia Beach.  I looked across the table at my two friends.  Our pizza was finished, as well as the second pitcher.

    “So,” I said, “what do you guys want to do?”

    “We could go down to the Oceanfront,” one offered.

    “Naw, it’s not tourist season yet.  Nothing going on down there.”

    “Well,” he said, “what about Nag’s Head?”

    “Why?”

    “Why not?”

    Even though Nag’s Head would be as dead as the Virginia Beach Oceanfront, the scheme sounded logical.  So, after a detour to a liquor store to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels and Seven-Up,  we headed two hours south into North Carolina.

    A few hours later, my Chevy lay upside down in a Moyock, North Carolina ditch.  Miraculously, even though none of us wore a seat belt, we were virtually unharmed.  

    But, the car was totaled.

********

    Last week, while perusing Twitter (X...whatever) in search of some lunatic to pick a fight with, I came across this...

    It caused me to ponder.  Sure, there are many events in my life which caused me to go in this direction or that.  After all, 65 years has a tendency to do that.

    But, if I had to choose, it would be that decision made by (okay, let's be honest) impaired numbskulls who thought driving to a darkened beach on the Outer Banks was genius.

   Now I know that this may bore you.  We all have those things in our past that have profoundly affected us, but don't feel the need to put them down in writing.  Not so with me.  Such is my ego trip.

Speaking of ego trips, still available by the truckload.

    So, I may be typing this is in a vacuum where only I will tread.

    Anyways....

    By the time April, 1980 had arrived, I'd nearly reached my fourth anniversary of serving in the Navy.  I had seen a lot and done a lot, but I was determined to get out when my time came in August and return home to Connecticut.

    Even a few months after my accident, that was still the plan.  However, I had lost a few thousand dollars and was dropped like third grade English by my insurance company.

    Despite brave attempts to put on a happy face, things were bleak.

    Then the career counselor told me I could reenlist for four years of shore duty.  What's more, the Navy would give me $10,000.  

    Well, since it was for shore duty and I was going to get thousands of dollars, I saw a way to ease the financial burdens in my life.  So, why not?

    Plus, that summer I started dating a local girl.  So, why not hang around?

    If you've read this far, I'm going to cut you a break and "speed round" how a night of idiocy affected me:

1.  I remained in Virginia.

2.  I married the aforementioned girl.

3.  I did separate from the Navy in 1984.  But, I joined the Naval Reserves.

VA-0686 at NAS Oceana, Virginia Beach.
Huh.
I didn't know we had a patch.

4.  The aforementioned girl told me she was leaving me at our fourth anniversary dinner (this sounds depressing, but things turned out pretty good).

5.  I then determined to return to Connecticut to go to school.

6.  I met another girl from Virginia Beach (if you think you know where this is going, you'd be correct).

7.  Stubbornly, I moved to Connecticut in August, 1985.  However, because of that girl, I remained drilling at Oceana.

8.  While making a sock puppet as part of my elementary school teacher training, I decided to drop out of school at Central Connecticut State College.

9.  I returned to Virginia Beach.

10.  I married the girl I had met several months prior.  No, I can't figure it either.  I must be a player.

11.  I reenlisted in the Navy and changed my specialty to Naval Aircrew.

Yeah, this was fun. 
Cheesy moustache notwithstanding.

Fast forward because even I'm getting a little bored...

12.  My wife gave me two beautiful children while we were living in Maine.

Fast forward some more because it's close to dinnertime...

13.  After thirty years, Wife #2 told me we were done.  Clearly, I could get 'em.  I just couldn't keep 'em.

14.  Our daughter moved with her husband from Pennsylvania to, you guessed it, Virginia Beach.

15.  Once I retired for the second time (I had retired from the Navy in 2005), I planned on moving to, I get the irony, North Carolina.

16.  My daughter asked if we could live together while they saved up for a house so I moved to, you guessed it, Virginia Beach in 2020.

17.  Shockingly, I met a girl who will become Wife #3.  These women I meet must have shockingly bad taste in men.

18.  We bought a house in Virginia Beach.

I call it the "Kenderosa." 
Remember that ego trip I was talking about?

19.  So, though my daughter and her family moved back to Pennsylvania, I know I shall remain in Virginia.

    None of this is what I would have envisioned over an empty pitcher of beer (or in an upside down Monza) all those many years ago.

    But, that is what happened and I am very happy that that was the turning point that set the stage for a wonderful life then, during, and now.

    And now?  Dinnertime.

I remain impaired, though.

 

 

   

Fun With Don

 Orange Jesus Bone Spurs has his bases covered just in case he's convicted and gets thrown in jail where he'll be forced to wear-what else?-an orange jumpsuit...

"If I wind up going to jail, believe me, it will be the most beautiful jail ever created because-very few  people know this-it was my great-great-great-great-great-can you believe how great he was?-great-great-great-great-grandfather, Marcus Aurelius Trump who invented prisons and got the Huns to pay for it, not those loser Parthians who were actually Iranians.*  And, let me tell you, people were dying to get into those jails, which were more like resorts.  With locking doors, shankings, and bed checks."

"Don't forget sodomy."

*the Parthians were actually from Iran.  Yeah, I'm a nerd for knowing this.  And now so do you.  So what does that make you?   Thatttttttt's right.

More Fun With Joey From Scranton

 

"I think Dr. Jill got a new haircut.  But, she's not wearing the drapes she normally wears. 
Maybe I should have a little sniff to be sure."

Be Thankful

 

"Awwwww, wild pheasant, venison, turkey, boar, corn, french bean casserole, squash, e...what the fuck, Runs With Scissors??  Eel pie??"

    Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

    It’s the first of the year-end celebrations, the others being Christmas, Hanukkah, and New Years.  And, by New Years, I mean New Years Eve.  January 1st is really only meant for watching college football and making resolutions to not act like a jackass at the next New Years Eve party.

    Provided you even get invited back.

    You could make the case that Veterans Day kicks it off.  But, as evidenced by the dismal ratings of the short-lived It’s the War to End All Wars, Charlie Brown special, the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month just doesn’t make for a merry start of the holiday season.

    So, it’s really the 4th Thursday of November which gets the festivities rolling (hey, it’s easier than trying to figure out when the frik Easter is).

    After all, what evokes the holiday spirit more than getting trampled at Wal-Mart by frenzied harpies in bathrobes and curlers on Black Friday?

"That's 'Friday of Color.'  Cracker."

    As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate how special Thanksgiving is.  A more sober occasion than the frenetic zaniness of the Yuletide season, at Thanksgiving we gather just to be together, not because we hope to score the latest electronic gizmo.

    Oh, sure, even though there are parades, football games, and enough food to sink the Mayflower, Thanksgiving is thankfully (pardon the pun) devoid of the commercialism of Christmas and the bacchanalian excess of New Year’s Eve.

    Gratefully, we aren’t bombarded by wall-to-wall advertisements to get our loved ones (or our families) the very latest in techno wizardry (“Because, if you REALLY loved Mom, you’d buy her a Kindle Fire!”) in the run-up to Thanksgiving.  Plus, there’s no such thing as a “24-Hour Thanksgiving Music Station” or a “Randolph the Hair-Lipped Turkey” special on the Hallmark channel.

    No, it’s a calming prelude to the mania which paralyzes every December.  It’s a time to appreciate what we’ve been given.

Although, it is difficult to ignore the racism
in the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special.
Which also is the suckiest of all the Charlie Brown specials.

    As the day draws nearer, I think back to that very first day of thanks held over four hundred years ago...

    The brightly colored leaves swirling madly amongst the trees, a chill autumn wind blowing briskly over freshly-harvested fields, and the forest animals bustling crazily about in preparation for winter.

    And nobody fighting over the remote.

    So it was in 1621 that Governor Bradford of Plymouth Colony thought it was high time to celebrate a day of thanksgiving.

    Frantically scurrying to find a suitable venue at which to hold their celebration, the Pilgrim Fathers were disappointed to learn they were too late; all the good days in October and early November had been reserved months ago.

"Okay, the governor has directed a day of thanksgiving be held.  Looks like October is best.  So, how 'bout the first weekend?"
"Pequot/Schwartz wedding."
"Eff.  Second?"
"Norwegian 'We Were First' Celebration."
"Son of a...third?"
"Last of the Mohican family reunion."
"Good grief.  What about the last weekend?"
"What?  And spoil our leaf peeping tour of the Berkshires?  Next!"
"Well, I gotta be in Jamestown the first few weeks of November.  Let's shoot for the fourth weekend of the month."
"Maybe, but late November in New England?  Are you meshuggah?"
"Give me a break.  Just take a look.  Would that be so hard?"

    Luckily, a spot opened up the last Thursday of November when “Mohawks On Ice!” was forced to close after some Hurons stole all the loincloths.  So, the Native Europeans invited their friends, the Native Americans, to a grand feast at the local Elks Lodge picnic pavilion (with real elk). 

    A deeply devout people, the Pilgrims wished to thank the “Godless heathen savages” for all their help getting the colony on its feet.  After all, the tribe was essential to gaining a foothold in the New World, long before the Trail of Tears, Wounded Knee, and all-you-can-eat casino buffets. 

    Imagine what would have happened had Squanto not taught the Pilgrims to plant dead fish with their corn. 

"Behold, I bring you the gift of maize! 
And smell of dead fish."

    Prior to that, they just stuck them in their trousers.

    Many customs today hearken back to this coming together: the feast, the fellowship, the two-hand touch lacrosse game after supper, and the men falling asleep in front of the fire with their hands down their pants while the women cleaned up...all laid the foundation of our nation.

    NOTE:  By our nation, I mean the United States.  Canada, you have your own Thanksgiving.  England, you coulda had a piece of this, but noooooooooo.

"Yeah, it's warm, but there's no football. 
What's that all aboot?"

    Happily, it was the giving of thanks which has endured through peace, war, and Trump Administration.  No doubt Governor Bradford himself began a tradition which survives to this day:  putting relatives on the spot to state that for which they were thankful.

"Actually, Thanksgiving is my most favorite holiday too as it is the most American of all the great holidays and is not to be confused with Canadian Thanksgiving which is held on Columbus Day weekend, and remarkably doesn't have any Italian dishes which is a tragedy because it was Christoper Columbus, an Italian, who discovered America and not some loser Viking who, quite frankly, got his ass kicked by the bad-ass Indians up in the northern wilderness of...the north even though it was my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Magnuss Trumpsson who should have led them to an awesome victory over the savages but was betrayed by Leaf Ericksson, who should have had a much less stupid first name than being called a "Leaf," can you believe it, but that was no matter because it was my great-great-great grandmother Goody Ivanka Orangina who was John Winthrop's chief advisor on the Mayflower and takes credit for the invention of turkey the bird not turkey the country, which is ironically led by real turkeys.  CHYNA!"

    In homes across the nation, this scene will be played out anew during halftime.  In the true spirit of the holiday, millions of family members will likewise be grilled.

    This year, though, in addition to joyful thanks for family, friends, and the feelings of warmth which come from both, one will resonate above all:

    That Great-Aunt Mildred was able to buy the last case of Twinkies from that guy in the back of his van at the Stop N Shop.

    Because the alternative was the Eel Pies.

    And I don’t care how much Cool Whip you put on them, they’re still eels.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!

"You mean it's not April Fools Day?"