Peelin’ Taters

Happy Thanksgiving! Hope you're all off to Grandmother's house (or the in-laws, or to the prison cafeteria visiting Dad, or to Denny's) to enjoy a scrumptious turkey. Or a turducken. Or a cod. Whatever. Apparently I'm touched with a smidge of masochism, for I shall be orchestrating dinner at my house, which sucks in that I'm doing all the cookin' for my peeps and can't just walk out the door, monster pile-o-dishes in the sink, and say "thanks for dinner, toodle-oo!" like I normally would at my in-laws. This might be a bad idea, which I somehow seem to have plenty of in stock. Side note to self: start a death metal band. Name it "Smidge of Masochism".

Any friends, vagrants or hobos: feel free to stop by, though I should warn you, I'll probably pretend I'm not home. Notes of interest: There shall be no hippie Tofurkey allowed on the premises at any given time, under penalty of the law. Trespassers will be bitch-slapped and given a home perm. Sorry, I don't make the rules, I just...make the rules. Feel free to lodge a complaint and you will receive a response from management in between a week to never.



What's on the menu, you don't care to ask? Pretty standard Thanksgiving Day stuff, really:
Turkey, mashed potaters, gravy, stuffing, corn, fresh baby carrots, fresh green beans, homemade bread (what in sam's hell was I thinking?), a can of wiggling berry gelatinous matter (also known as cranberry sauce)- but not homemade though, because A. it's gross and B. I'm not Martha freaking Stewart, you know.



So thank someone today, to show your gratitude and crap. Like your
mother for having you. Let her know that she didn't walk uphill to the hospital in a blizzard, barefoot, in curlers, towing the '71 Plymouth Satellite station wagon with a rope between her teeth and hammered on Boone's Farm for nothing.





*"Peelin' Taters" by Junior Brown.