ConstantCommentary® Vol. I, No. 9, December 4, 1997

So Sue Me . . .

by Mike Jasper


Every turkey has its day

Don't know about you, but I'm glad to be through with yet another Thanksgiving. I think wringing the bird's neck is the worst part. The second is hoping that one of the people I eat with doesn't die. If no one dies, I call Thanksgiving a success.

Every year I eat the big bird with old people. I like old people. By old, I mean over 70. I reserve the right to raise that number.

I'll be getting to my birthday later.

Here's how I see it. People over 70 are old and people younger than 70 are not old, unless they are dead. Jim Morrison is old. Burt Reynolds is still young. True, he was younger when he lived with Lonnie Anderson, but he still qualifies.

This year's Thanksgiving featured two stunning events. First, the Dallas Cowboys lost to the Oilers. Second, we ran out of mashed potatoes.

What's up with that? I, for one, would be happy with a bowl of mashed potatoes and a plate of turkey. You can keep everything else. The Jell-O mold is fine, the yams are yummy, and the deviled eggs are fatteningly good. But you've got to have mashed potatoes, people, loads of them.

While I'm at it, every year the dressing sucks unless I make it. Dressings suck in two distinct ways. First, you've got the dried out, bland ass cornmeal dressing that lumps like a fur ball in the back of the throat. Then you have your dark, gooey mystery dressing. This is usually soft and chewy and full of delights such as liver, oysters, gizzards, turkey beaks and whatever else the cook finds left over in the refrigerator. This dressing is usually made by cranky old women and chubby gay men. Given time, they will take us all down.

I didn't mean to heckle Thanksgiving. It's not my fault. It's Karri's fault, my girlfriend. We spent Thanksgiving with HER family. We ran out of mashed potatoes at HER family's dinner. We stood in line for seconds at HER family's house when I said, jokingly, "Maybe I'll write this week's column about Thanksgiving dinner."

She said, "You can't write about my family."

Great. Now I have to.

Her sister-in-law, Beth, thought it was a pretty good idea provided I didn't name names. Maybe. First I'll see what Travis -- my girlfriend's brother, Beth's husband -- thinks of the idea.

It's not that I have anything against her family (yes, Travis and Beth, you guys and the kids are swell and I'm glad you read my column). It just happens to be the family in front of me at the moment. In fact, nothing bad ever happens at Gerkin family functions. Nobody drinks, so it never turns ugly. They just sit and stew.

Not like my family. Every year we have a family function, the same drunken asshole shows up. Me.

But over the years, the relationships in my family have improved and mellowed. There's two reasons for this. First, we all got older, wiser, a little more mature, no longer able to afford a cocaine habit and found that overeating was enough. Second, we all live at least 2,000 miles from each other.

Everybody loves my sister Rickey the best. And why not? I've seen her three times in the last 20 years. What's not to love?

Back to Karri's family. After dinner, we go over to her parents' house to watch football and smoke cigars. Well, maybe just me, but what else am I supposed to do? Anyway, Travis and Beth start talking about my column on the web and suddenly Karin's mom gets curious.

Her name is Charity, by the way. Karin's dad is Millard.

"I'd like to read your column," she said.

Oh sure, I think. Then later on you can come over to the house and watch me have sex with your daughter.

"You're not allowed to read my column," I said.

"You know, I lived in Houston. I've been around and I've probably seen more than you have."

"You probably have," I said. "But you're still not allowed to read my column."

This is actually a good way to get someone to read my column. But I mean it... no moms are allowed to read my column. Not mine, not yours.

I know, I know. "But I am a mom." Yeah, well, we grandmothered you in. But if your daughter or your son starts reading the column on a regular basis, YOU have to stop.

My sister, Rickey wanted to send one of my columns to my mom. Sure, Rickey. I'll send it to her on a floppy disk along with a JPEG of my genitals.

This column isn't designed for old people and kids. Do I worry about kids reading my column? No. There are no graphics, there's no music, there's no Java -- there's not even color on this page. Kids who come across this page will be bored long before they ever reach a verb.

Do I worry about old people reading my column? No. Are you serious? They can't even work the remote control.

It's not that I have anything against my mom or Karri's mom or you, Beth, it's just that I don't want to have someone's mom in my head while I write. I like to think about Frank Graham and Mary C. and a few other sick friends while I write this column. If I start thinking about moms, first I'm going to go nuts, second I'm going to start numbering every thought that comes to my head, and finally you're going to get MORE BAD WRITING LIKE YOU GOT THIS WEEK.

It's funny. People who know me think they have impunity. In fact, I'm a million more times likely to write about someone I know than someone I don't. That's what used to amaze me about football coaches and politicians back when I was a newspaper reporter. They seemed so surprised when I turned on them. IT WAS MY JOB!

Hell, my buddy Don is probably reading this and hoping that his name doesn't come up, but it did and I'd stick it to him right now if I could only think of something to stick him with.

I trust I made my case.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1997 by Mike Jasper.