I was perusing my Thanksgiving posts from the last several years and adding them to a new category called “Thanksgiving” so they’d be more easily searchable for me. Unfortunately, adding the new category and updating added them all to my Twitter feed. My apologies to the four people who follow that feed. Though, likely, it’s not the same four people who follow this. So they’ll never know I apologized. Oh well, enough about them. This is about us.
In last year’s post, I mentioned that the annual harvest had been “a bag of dicks”. That was ugly! I’d say I’m feeling more positive this year. 12 month’s ago, I, like many normal humans, was concerned about what the future would be like with our new insane president. Fortunately, it turns out, life is exactly the same. Well, the news is different, but the actual day-to-day part of life seems unchanged. That’s good enough, right? Let’s celebrate with a feast!
Thanksgiving feast is the only feast officially recognized by this blog. I eat until I’m sick 176 times per year, but this is the big one. This one is planned. It’s also the one time a year that I’m voluntarily social. I would be fine with a hundred people in our home for that one day only, provided most of them leave pretty quickly after eating. I wouldn’t go to someone else’s home to be with those people. Let’s not be crazy. But I’ll share our food with them in the comfort of my own home… because I know all the places I can hide if I get uncomfortable.
This year we have the added benefit of our college bound son coming home for the whole week. This is the beginning of the next stage in life. The one that eventually develops into adding a daughter in law and then grandchildren into the mix. We’ve already had “the talk”. The one about making sure any woman he dates doesn’t have conflicting Thanksgiving traditions. That’s a deal breaker for us, and we would destroy her.
So there you go. The year has been better than bag of dicks, we’re all getting older and while it’s not completely impossible, it’s probably unlikely that we’ll all die in a nuclear holocaust any time soon. Let’s eat!
Generations from now, when historians look back on 2016, they’ll agree that it can eat a bag of dicks. This year’s harvest was a steaming pile of crap. Regardless, we’ll give thanks tomorrow and celebrate with a feast.
As a nation, we normally gather on Thanksgiving in large diverse groups of friends and family. We smile and nod at racist uncles and Fox News repeaters, indulge vegan cousins and ignore goth nieces. A large enough dose of tryptophan makes everything a little more tolerable. This year, however, many will gather in smaller like minded groups. Some won’t join any gathering at all. The weeks’ old wounds of election day are still too raw for tolerance to be allowed back in our homes.
I often wonder about Thanksgiving in 1963. President Kennedy was killed on the Friday before Thanksgiving. He’d already pardoned a turkey. Right before Thanksgiving is a shit time to die. What’s worse is he was on his way to lunch. I’m very structured about meal times. I would have been thinking about what I was having for lunch at that time of day, and at that time of November, I’d have been daydreaming of the coming feast. Maybe presidents have more to worry about, but maybe they don’t. Maybe the personal tragedy of November 22, 1963 is that a man was robbed of life, lunch and Thanksgiving feast. I’ve heard stories of some pretty horrible things said in the immediate aftermath of the Kennedy assassination. That must have been an uncomfortable year to share a table with people who had wicked words in their mouths.
There’s no moral to this stream of consciousness. If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that you don’t need to make a point. Also a bag of dicks is a lot uglier than anyone could have dreamed.
Before we had internet memes, we had sayings. Before sayings, we had proverbs. These were things like “a penny saved is a penny earned”, “two wrongs don’t make a right” or “the pen is mightier than the sword”.
The proverb I want to talk about is “a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts”. Honestly, I don’t remember even 60% of the things I say when I’m drunk, so I can’t tell you if that’s true or not. However, more than once, I’ve been enjoying my coffee and watching Meet The Press on a Sunday morning, and my phone will start blowing up with Facebook alerts because Drunk-Me posted something inappropriate the night before. Reading what I posted is often embarrassing, but admittedly it usually makes me snicker. In those cases, the drunk man’s posts were a fair reflection of the inappropriate thoughts usually contained in my sober mind.
Several months back, I found a bunch of Gene Autry songs in my digital music library. Apparently Drunk-Me is much older than I am, but he’s pretty tech-wise for a man of his advancing years. He’s also not averse to a little digital piracy. Most recently, Drunk-Me bootlegged all 6 Bing Crosby & Bob Hope Road Movies, even Road to Hong Kong from 1962, which doesn’t even have Dorothy Lamour in it. I don’t remember if I was being thorough or if I’m just a jerk.
Drunk-Me is a tech-savvy octogenarian with a rude sense of humor, a completist’s attention to detail and a lax opinion of copyright law. That’s the sort of guy I’d like to have a beer with. In fact, I hope to never have a beer without him. In the road movie of my life, Drunk-Me is the Crosby to my Hope. Or is he the Hope to my Crosby? Are we both Hope? I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this level of introspection.
A few weeks back, I was at a stoplight on the way to work. In my rear view mirror, I saw a normal looking middle aged white man in a plain suburban sedan, methodically and repeatedly picking his nose and eating his boogers.
Suddenly a light from heaven flashed around me. I fell on the ground and heard a voice say, “Great Caeser’s Ghost, why do you still expect the best of your fellow man. This is what they are, a bunch of mouth breathing, booger eating, hairless apes.”
Epiphany!
If you know me at all, you know I’m an optimist. I believe that when confronted with the worst, we rise to the occasion. I believe that despite our often cruel and evil behavior, it’s “the better angels of our nature” (attribute: A. Lincoln) that prevail. But deep down inside, I mean way, way down, I’ve always suspected that humans are a bunch of filthy animals. Racists, homophobes, wife-beaters, “mother rapers, father stabbers, father rapers.” (attribute: A. Guthrie).
Seeing that normal looking man in my rear view eating his boogers was like a secret glimpse into a dark place that I always suspected was there, but never knew for sure. But now, just as surely as Saul was struck blind by God on the road to Damascus, I was given sight on the road to Richardson. There is no hope for mankind. We’ve bombed the innocent, ravaged the climate and nominated Trump. From here on, we get what we deserve. Welcome to the Upside Down.
Jimmy Kimmel is trending on the interwebs because he cried while talking about the killing of Cecil the Lion. (Take a minute to Google Cecil if you need to catch up. I’ll be here when you get back.)
I read an angry thread on Facebook from someone who was super pissed that Jimmy Kimmel cried about a lion, but didn’t cry for… then proceeded to list all the sad things in the world that Jimmy Kimmel must also now be required to cry about. (Side note, some of the items on the list weren’t sad but just political things the poster finds offensive.) The argument is that if Jimmy Kimmel cries about a lion, he must also be required to cry about everything everyone else finds important.
This sort of thing comes up any time the President does ANYTHING. The White House was lit in rainbow colors after the Obergefell v Hodges (marriage equality) ruling from the Supreme Court on June 25. This was followed several days later by angry posts decrying that the White House wasn’t lit in Red, White and Blue for Independence Day. Really? It’s the White House. It’s very existence is a celebration of our Independence. The President doesn’t need to shoot bottle rockets from the roof for us to know he’s not the Queen of England.
The argument here is that you can’t cry about one thing unless you cry about everything. You can’t celebrate one thing unless you celebrate everything. Unless you believe all the things I believe, you mustn’t share your beliefs at all. No!
The world where 7.3 billion people cry in unison because of an undercover Planned Parenthood video isn’t a world I’d want to live in. The world where 196 capitol buildings are lit in the colors of what we all agree to celebrate (bad news Christians, but Christmas probably wouldn’t make the list if we ALL have to agree) isn’t a world I’d want to be part of. The world where we can only discuss the small list of items we all agree to be inoffensive sounds to me like a most offensive world.
I say be passionate about the things your passionate about, don’t care about the things you don’t care about, and stop pretending to be mad all the time about things that probably don’t really bother you at all. Yes, your trumped up (Trumped?) anger got you noticed. Yes, your stupid rant trended. But in the grand scheme, what of value did you bring into the world? Was your opinion worth sharing or did you simply shine a light on your ignorance in a public place?
I’ve been hesitant to share my opinions via Facebook on a range of topics because the commentary that follows is always such a beating. I’ve concealed my passion to avoid your judgement. But you know what? Screw that! Here’s some stuff I’m thinking about:
I drove around with a broken turn signal for three months. I changed lanes without signaling dozens of times a day, more than once in full view of a DPS officer. I never got pulled over. For the same offense, Sandra Bland got threatened with a taser, removed from her car and imprisoned for three days. It’s possible to pissed off about that and also support the police.
The Confederate battle flag was kept in storage for 90 years after the end of the Civil War. Southern Governors started flying them again in the late 1950s to late 1960s to show their opposition to the Civil Rights movement that was gaining support in the US government. I’m a son of the Confederacy. I’m a rebel. I would drive an orange charger through a “bridge out” sign without hesitation. And I’m telling you that flag doesn’t represent southern pride or rebel spirit. It symbolizes racism. It needed to go away. Suck it.
Yeeeeee-haaaa
More good guys with guns does not equal fewer bad guys with guns. Open carry does not make for a more peaceful society. We tried that already, it was called the wild west. Am I willing to test your theory? Yes, let’s test it somewhere I don’t live.
Your gender identity is your concern. Who you love is no one else’s business. Be who you are. To hell with what anyone else thinks about it. If your neighbor tries to tell you who you’re allowed to love, burn their house down. That’s probably in the Bible. *citation needed
Yes, the rich are getting richer at the expense of everyone else. There’s a 90 percent chance this will result in a bloody rebellion, and I’m cool with that.
Yes, the planet is getting warmer and ocean levels are rising due in part to man-made climate change. By the time we realize we don’t have to agree about science, it’ll be too late to do anything about it. I’m not cool with that.
Okay Republicans, if you’re still with me, this one is important. Donald Trump is a jack ass. Your best bet, if you want to win is Chris Christie. Jeb Bush is your second choice. Jeb would be first if he wasn’t the 3rd of his name, as they say on Game of Thrones. Here’s what’s actually going to happen; Scott Walker will get the GOP nomination and he’ll lose to Hillary Clinton with a final electoral college count of 303 to 235. Walker won’t carry his home state of Wisconsin. Bookmark this and check back in 16 months. I’m almost always right on this stuff.
Sun bleached twinkle lights and faded décor
Robin’s nest in the garland ‘round the window
Dead June bugs in the wreath on the door
Christmas ends when the lawn needs a mow
Great Caeser's Ghost 