Moving up

Okay. I’ve had four views since publishing my first missive, which I consider pretty damn good (the views, not the missive, although that wasn’t bad, either). I’m hoping for five by the time Christmas arrives.
A few folks contacted me and said that my Thanksgiving post was rather crude. I informed them that It was nothing more than irreverent satire, which can at times be crude, and they received no apologies. Hey, I’m just another internet blogger with four viewers spouting off on everyday matters. My wife wanted to know who Becky is, and so I pulled down my pants, bent over, and showed her. Boom! Okay, that didn’t happen, because I seriously don’t have hemorrhoids. And there was/is no Becky. I don’t think I’ve ever dated a Becky, let alone had a Becky blow me. Her loss.
So we just watched Charlie Brown’s Thanksgiving, and why did the young Mr. Brown have to give Franklin, the gratuitous black kid, a hip and groovy handshake? For that matter why did Franklin get the crappy chair at the dinner table? And what’s up with Woodstock giggling his ass off while eating another bird with Snoopy at the dinner table?
I’d like to write here once or twice a week, possibly more, with hopes of avoiding politics. Honestly, there are enough folks out there talking about the sad state of our union. I’ll leave that to the so-called experts (blowhards).
Currently, I’m reading Bad Monkey, by Carl Hiaasen. It’s a rather funny novel about a cop demoted to food inspector in the Florida Keys. Every time I go into Barnes and Nobles I grab a cup of coffee and read a chapter, and so I’m not that far along. Chapter eight, I think. Bookmarks don’t work so well in this scenario. (I was going to use the word scheme, but that denotes an air of underhandedness.) Hey, at least I’m buying coffee. Beside, it’s a good book, so I’m the one getting cheated here. Regardless, I set a goal and I intend to keep it. I’ll let you know when I’m done.
On the television front I’m on season eight of Dexter, which is about two seasons too many. I hate this weepy Debra Morgan. But then again, I didn’t like her much in season one, when she was awkward and insecure. And then she found some confidence, took her top off, and became hot. Now, not so much, and I’m looking forward to it being over.  (Unless she starts taking her top off again!)
Tomorrow we bake a Turkey, and then we’re going to put together a little Holiday video for the family. We’ll post it on Youtube. Should be fun.
That’s all for now.
Goodnight my four viewers (I wonder if that’s four separate viewers or if someone has read it four times).

Happy Thanksgiving

My first post just happens to coincide with the Thanksgiving holiday 2013.

Here is my take on the matter:

I just love this time of year, ‘tis the season for giving.
Everywhere we look there are people giving thanks. Giving middle fingers, and more intimately giving the clap. We give each other heartburn and are happy to do so. Want a heart attack? My pleasure.
When did this new fad begin where we give thanks every single day in the month of November? Wish I had that much to be thankful about. I want to give thanks, but seriously, should I be thankful for these bunions? What about the hemorrhoids blister that I’ve named Becky? (Oh yes I did, Becky.) And should I give thanks to my massively receding hairline?
Not to be a bummer, but what about the weather – global warming and melting ice caps and hurricanes and tsunamis? So thank you weather chasers, as I sit in my lounge chair laughing my ass off while you try and outrun the tornados.
Thank you bananas. Seriously, I just ate one and it was delicious.
Thank you head lice, for hours of entertainment popping the shit out of you.
Not that I’ve had head lice, and I’ve never had the clap, either. (Becky!)
Thank you middle age and Vegas body shots and my stupid pierced earlobe.
Thank you Men’s magazine for showing me the body that I’ll never have, and then showing me a better body the month after you promised me six-pack abs. You know what? Fuck you, Men’s magazine. I hate you!
Thank you deep breaths.
Thank you Robin Leach, you prick, for showing me the lifestyles of the rich and famous.
Thanks you hot tub of water and my little rubber ducky, candles and wine and masturbation. Hell, I could give an entire week of thanks to masturbation alone (Becky!).
Thank you Dexter for killing all the people that I don’t have the skill or courage to kill. But I’m right there with you, strapping those assholes to tables and plunging my knife deep inside their black heartless hearts. Psst. Dexter. You do it a little too quickly. Honestly, why should killing be as quick as masturbation? How’s about a little foreplay, and we can start with the middle finger of the guy who flipped me off the other day in traffic? The lady with the wicked tongue in the checkout line we cut out her tongue. You get the picture. The pervert, his prick. You get the picture.
Thank you Toby. He’s my little dog. He’s cuddly and lovable, and I’m quite certain that should I ever die in bed he’d eat my face off.
Thank you technology. I fucking hate you technology, but maybe if I say thanks you’ll be a little kinder.
Thank you DC politicians for our roads and the military and for allowing me to spice up my boring life while my jerkoff friends and I talk on the phone about overthrowing McDonalds. “Who is this Big Mac that they wish to hold hostage?”
Thank you Ipad for allowing me to read the news without paying for a subscription, although Toby liked the newspapers better. Bad Toby!
Thank you tradition, for turkey and stuffing and cranberries and pumpkin pie.
Thank you bulimia.
Thank you curser for blinking the way you do. But really, who’s the sadistic techie that made you blink like that, over and over with the blinking, like some pendulum, or some guy tapping his foot waiting for an answer. Die, curser, die!
Wait. Don’t die. I feel I’d be lost without you.
Thank you leaf blower. We’ve had some real good times, giving it to the leaves the way we did. Becky used to blow me like that.
Thank you Black Friday, for all of the wonderful videos you post on the Internet. For making me feel sorry for that fat asshole who rushed to the front of the line only to be trampled by fatter assholes behind him. For the cameraman who faces the hurricane of thrifty, dopy shoppers. For the incoherent interviews, about how people had no idea that it was going to be this bad. “Last year was bad, but this shit here real bad!”
Thank you bad, for being badder every year.
Really, I just love this time of year.
What’s not to love?