You’ll have to bear with me here, I’m dopey from tryptophan. Dopey and sleepy and deeply regretting my choice of pants. They fit so nicely when I put them on this morning, now they’re a tool of the devil. I can’t breathe, I can’t bend, I’m as bloated as a parade balloon. Stand back, ladies and gentlemen, I could blow any second.
While we’re waiting, let me tell you what I’m thankful for on this fine Thanksgiving Day. It’s not the same old chestnuts, the ones that get trotted out every year along with the good china — family, friends, food, shelter, et al. They may be politically correct and lovely sentiments, but ho-freaking-hum, right? Come up with some new material. Please.
Me, I’m thankful for forced air heating. Jack Daniels. Books with real, honest-to-goodness pages. Recliners. Brownies. Van Halen. Warm socks. And winning lottery tickets (or I will be if I ever have one).
You know what else I’m thankful for? Pockets. Without them, hands just hang there, looking awkward, ungainly, and really, really dorky. Seriously, what can you do with hands when they’re not busy? Fidget? Whittle? No, you shove them in your pockets where they can’t get into trouble. And when your hands are occupied with other things, voila, storage space.
Right now, however, my hands are homeless. They have nowhere to go. I couldn’t cram them in my pockets with a crowbar, that’s how tight my pants are. The turkey wasn’t half as stuffed as I a … whoa, did you hear a rumble? That’s ominous, what was it?
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