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What I am thankful for

By

Jason D. Grose

 

 
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Every year it seems that everyone gets sentimental and starts thinking about what they are thankful for. After all, it is called 'Thanksgiving" and far be it for me to let another one slip by without at least a mention of my appreciation. But this year, I am going to add a twist: Rather than listing what I am thankful for, how about what I am thankful for NOT having:

To top the list, I should say that I am thankful I am an adult and NOT forced to eat what I do not want to. Whose idea was it to produce semi-solid, blood red gelatin and force it upon unsuspecting children? They should really call it "crapberries" as far as I'm concerned.

Next, I should thank God that I am not a turkey. For one, have you ever seen a turkey up close? Crap hanging off the top of their beaks and a "waddle" underneath. Good Lord, what was He thinking at the drawing board during the design process of that one? Not to mention that November brings the time of sanctioned murder for these busted up looking birds. That would put a real damper on the early fall, don't you think?

Back to the dinner table; what  twisted mind came up with yams? Even the name, for goodness sake. "Hey, let's take this root out the ground, hack the dirt off, dump it in boiling water with some unknown nasty spices until it becomes the consistency of paste. Yeah, let's do that." And I do not want to even get into pumpkin pie. Desserts' and bulbous veggies' paths should never cross, under any circumstances.

I am thankful that I did not travel this year. The thought of packing up a representation of my daily living necessities (and my wife packing everything else in the house including some items from the neighbors' belongings, just in case) does not strike me as a celebratory experience.

You got everything? Where is the kids? Is that one ours? I don't care if Bulbasaur gets carsick, we are not stopping! Does that tire look low? Well, if we didn't have to leave at 0100, the broken headlight wouldn't matter now, would it? No we are not there yet. Use the Gatoraide bottle, that's what I did at CAX! OK, Jimmy is done crackin' corn because I really really don't care. We made it, Ma, where's your crapper? Actually, I have lost weight. No, mother, I will not eat the cranberries! Kids, I'm about to start breaking necks! Great, the hide-a-bed. You still have that, do ya? I know I just got here two days ago, but I have to be at work tomorrow. No, Officer, why don't you let me in on my speed and then we will both know. Good to be home but could the cat have even hit the linoleum near the box?

I am thankful that a man's place is not in the malls after Thanksgiving. I stayed home with the kids while my wife dressed up in her best "Road Warrior" outfit getting ready for battle. Have you seen this annual ritual where perfectly normal women go out and turn into rabid, blood-thirsty combatants in a cross between roller derby and an ultimate fighting contest over $3 bucks off a Nintendo? Hey, childbirth and post Thanksgiving shopping. Guys, be thankful.

My wife is the interior decorator. If it was up to me, we would have a half-dead, Good Grief Charlie Brown Christmas tree and whatever lame 70s era Christmas decorations I could pilfer from my Mom. But the day after Thanksgiving, also known as the Christmas Explosion, is a time for my wife to turn into Christine Cringle.  After washing off the drying blood of the less fortunate shopping wounded, she pulls out "The Boxes." I am then thankful that I am just another obstacle to cower in the corner while my house gets turned into Santa's Wonderland on meth. Mere hours later, it is as though the spirit of Christmas came in on pixy wings and proceeded to projectile vomit on everything I own.

About the only responsibility I have in this insane evolution is a little play called "Risk Your Life Hanging Twinkling Lights on the House." Other than the obvious question of exactly what illusion we are going for ("Hey, look, the Groses' house is on fire but only in exactly sequenced bits along the lines of the house!"), the other question begs to be asked, "If I am willing to die for my country, why should I be required to tempt God by climbing on my roof to slap up strings of plastic and glass with electricity running though them?" The answer, as some of you men will some day hear as the standard rebuttal if you haven't already, involves the childbirth thing mentioned above.

So there I go, with a wad of tangled lights whose mysteries should be studied by the same scientists who just cracked the human DNA sequence, up the ladder to my certain death. Thoughts of the lights getting around my neck as I slip, bang my skull on the gutter on the way down while an exposed piece of wiring pumps 115 volts through my convulsing body and the last words I hear is my wife calling me an idiot, race through my mind. But those lights have to go up. It just would not be Christmas without the bloodletting. I'm gonna go now to have a cold turkey sandwich as my last meal and clean up the cranberries the cat threw up, after finding my way past the waving animatronic Santa and reindeer-dung cosies.

Happy Thanksgiving.


Email -- jdgrose115@polyglut.net
Web -- http://members.tripod.com/~jdgrose115/

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