Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Thanksgiving Memories: Grampy Was Funnier Than A Homily Fart!

Well, happy best fahkin' day of the year, knuckleheads and shitstains!  And welcome to my very own This Church Ain't No Restaurant And I Don't Know Alice Massacree.  Time to stuff some stale bread up a turkey's ass and call it dinner.....

Now it all started a bunch of Thanksgivings ago, it was a bunch of Thanksgivings ago this Thanksgiving, when my buddy Roger and our other friend Debbie decided to leave the football game early cuz it was snowin' and we had other places to go, like the Tavern at the Bridge to do Prairie Fires with Stevie Mac and Father Bob.  What's that?  What's a Prairie Fire?  Well, glad you asked!  You see, a Prairie Fire is a stupid fukkin' idea... that's what a Prairie Fire is.  You get yerself a shot of tequila and add 5 drops of Tobasco.  Fire that fukker back and first one to take a chaser is a pussy.  Debbie chased first.  She's such a pussy.

But before we could get to the Tavern, good ol' Rog had to navigate Andover Street in his 1976 puke green Oldsmobile with bald tires and a bumper sticker on the back that read "UNDEFEATED SHIT"... don't ask.  In case you had no idea cuz you are a warm weather fairy who shits your pants at a dusting, bald Goodyears plus snow storm plus Andover Street equals call the ambulance, I think we killed that tree.  After leaving the scene to the po-po and tow truck, we just schlepped our asses across the river to the Tavern.  No way were we gonna let some silly car accident slow down tradition!!!

Ahhhh… Thanksgiving!  That perfect day of the year to be with family and friends, to belly up to the long table and scarf scraps like Mama June on a Sunday morning at Shoneys.   It's that day we set aside to eat shit like yams and pecans and figgy fukkin' pudding.  It is a time for pickling the liver and drinking like a Kennedy at the Cape.  Thanksgiving is a time for good morning beers and barroom breakfasts (can’t beat runny scrambled eggs, burnt toast and uncooked home fries washed down with a cold Budweiser).  To suck down some serious second hand smoke at the East End Club and love every minute  of it.  It is a day for high school football in the morning and Tony Romo shittin' his pants in the afternoon.  It's about sneaking into the kitchen to steal some turkey skin before dinner is served and for throwing dinner rolls across the room when someone says “Pass the rolls.”  Sometimes it is a day to run interference for your younger brother who has passed out upstairs after a long morning of Prairie Fires.  It's napping after dinner with your belt undone and and your hands in your pants.  And then it's waking up to eat and drink some more.

As long as I can remember, the fourth Thursday of every November has been my favorite day of the year. I think I can trace it back to that first Thanksgiving dinner when I learned that my grandfather, Black Label in hand with a shot of Canadian Club, was funnier than a homily fart.  I guess there's something about squeezing a boiled onion to make the center pop out like a doggie's dick that makes an 8 year old boy laugh.  Not sure how he didn't have his own bit on Hee Haw with his "little dicky" masterpiece of comedy.

Thanksgiving is also a time for saying prayers over our food.  For some reason, the Thanksgiving Day table warrants extra special attention from the good Lawd above while the other 364 dinners of the year get fukkin' squat for blessings.  But then again, I'm a wild and crazy risk taker.  I ride without a helmet, I tear tags off mattresses and I stuff my face with reckless abandon with food and drink that has been unblessed by the hands of God.  Color me dangerous, bitches!  Point to be noted here:  My family rocks grace with fukkin style:  We even have our very own deacon who amazingly can offer a serious blessing over a table that includes a ceramic tittie cup and four idiots in turkey hats.   Legend has it that the Freakin' Deacon has never been able to get through a Thanksgiving grace without someone (ahem… Kimberly and Andrew..) fighting off the giggle fits.

Thanksgiving also used to be the day when it became acceptable for radio stations to play Christmas music. But now that day has been pushed back to November fahkin 1st.  Which means the only remaining musical significance of the holiday is the hourly playing of Alice’s Restaurant on local radio stations.  Because there really are no songs about eating turkey with Pilgrims and Indians, we get nineteen minutes of quirky guitar and folksy speech from Arlo Guthrie about war and peace and garbage and call it a Thanksgiving song. Hmmm… whatever.

 So Happy Thanksgiving to you all – enjoy your 8am beers, your morning football games, your turkey, your little dickies and most of all, your family!!  See you on the other side, aka Hangover Friday.

That's what we did, and drove back to the church, had a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, went to sleep and didn't get up until the next morning, when we got a phone call from officer Obie.

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