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.
* * *
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.
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