Every turkey has its day
Don't know about you, but I'm glad to be
through with yet another Thanksgiving. I think ringing 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. I don't know why. But given
time, they will take us all down.
I didn't mean to heckle Thanksgiving. It's
not my fault. It's Karin'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, Brenda, thought it was
a pretty good idea provided I didn't name names. Maybe. First I'll see
what Clay -- my girlfriend's brother, Brenda's husband -- thinks of the
idea.
It's not that I have anything against her
family (yes, Clay and Brenda, 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 Godwin 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 drunkenly obnoxious 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 Kelly the best.
And why not? I've seen her three times in the last 20 years. What's not
to love?
Back to Karin'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, Clay and
Brenda start talking about my column on the web and suddenly Karin's
mom gets curious.
Her name is Vallie, by the way. Karin's
dad is Buford.
"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, Kelly wanted to send one of my
columns to MY mom. Sure, Kelly. 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 Karin's mom or you, Brenda, 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 Carouba 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 Coffin 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.
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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