Dear Journal

I remember a boy named Tony Yee.  His father was estranged, and his mother remarried.  Her name was Judy Nathan.

Tony and I first met in the sixth grade.  His family moved in next door from California, and he was an only child.  Their’s was a small ranch-style home on the corner of First and H Street, in a poor mill town in central Oregon.  Tony’s stepfather was an American Indian, and worked at the Warm Springs Indian Reservation some twenty-odd miles north of our town.  His mother, Judy, worked as a cashier at a local convenience store.

Our town was barely on the map, the census back then around 1,500 residents, a place where everyone knew your business.  Buses ran to and from school, but it wasn’t uncommon to take to foot and walk.  The junior high was a stone throw from our neighborhood, the high school a bit further.  Oftentimes we stopped by the grocery store before or after school, drinking sodas and playing video games.  Astroids was all the rage, and Defender.  On the weekends we hunted for soda and beer cans, and exchanged these for nickels.  When we weren’t in school we threw rocks along the rivers, and when in a more daring mood we crossed the train trestles that lay several hundred feet above the gorge, listening for the distant horns from encroaching locomotives.

We both came from broken homes, but never spoke of this unseemly bond.  We needed escape, and found it in each other, running the streets in innocent games of tag or kick the can, down at the school at the outdoor basketball hoops.  Fashion was unheard of, but we tried like hell to be cool.  Upon entering high school, we succumbed to peer pressure and smoked weed and drank beer.  No one told us that we couldn’t.  My grades slipped, and his fared even worse.  But what did it matter?  The future was a luxury that we couldn’t afford.  However, there were times when Tony talked about becoming a garbageman in San Francisco, the city from where he moved.  A friend of the family was making fifteen bucks an hour, and after thirty years planned on retiring with a life-long pension and money in the bank.  Sadly, Tony’s dreams were better than my own.

My sophomore year was dark with drugs and alcohol.  I look back now and hate the kid that I was.  He was everything wrong with society, a rebellious loser, having spent a few too many nights in the county jail for offenses that no parents ought to be proud of, and mine weren’t either.  Mostly, my parents were indifferent, because dad had problems of his own.  No, he wasn’t an alcoholic or abusive.  Dad was slowly dying, and toward the latter years it became rather ugly.  Pain medication wasn’t helping, and my mother had had enough, was slowly losing her mind.  The family was unravelling, and so what did it matter that I turned to alternate means of managing the pain that was my own?

In the summertime we worked for the local farmers, moving irrigation pipes or hoeing mint in the myriad fields.  We spent our money on clothes, shoes and drugs.  To pay off our debt to society, a judge ordered us to community service, wherein we spent a good portion of the summer washing county cops cars or cleaning the horse stalls down at the fair grounds.

Halfway through our junior year he and his mother moved back to San Francisco.  We kept in touch with phone calls and remained rather close.  That summer, we convinced our mothers that it would be in our best interests if he moved in with my family to finish out high school.  What happened then was inexcusable.  Our behavior was not something that I am proud of, and never would I allow my children the mere thoughts of such criminal antics.  We took to drinking and driving, stealing cars and money.  We fought with whomever wherever, and avoided the law by flight of foot or by car.  My grades plummeted, and so did his.  My senior year was the glitch in the DVD, a fragmented schism, but I know that it existed.  I have the yearbook to prove it, and there I am in the photos.  And there’s Tony, and oftentimes we’re standing together.

Judy drove up for graduation, and discovered at the ceremony that her son, Tony, wouldn’t be graduating.  He had missed too many classes, and his grades were abysmal.  How I managed to squeak by remains a mystery, for I had Fs of my own.  Tony went home with his mother, back to San Francisco, and I never heard from him again.

Dad was near death, and I had to get away.  From everything.  From the town and from my family, from all the influences and the drugs, and start life anew.  I took the remedial classes at Oregon Tech, and eventually earned credit hours that could be applied toward graduation.  My head cleared, and then my body.  How I went from one extreme to another I’ll never know.  A guardian angel?  Some internal drive that didn’t awaken until I turned 18?  Oftentimes I wonder on my younger years had I not met up with Tony.  Was he the catalyst for my near destruction?  Was I his?  Or were we simply bad together?

When I graduated from Southern Oregon I joined the Marine Corps.  My head was clear and my heart was strong.  The trials of Officer Candidate School were nothing compared to those that I had grown up with.  From Quantico, Virginia, they sent me to flight school in Florida – the beginning of a career in aviation.  I’ve travelled the world, and I believe that as a United States Marine I’ve done some good.  Perhaps enough to balance me out; perhaps enough to make me whole.

Late last year, in 2013, an old high school friend sent an email.  “Look up Tony Yee,” he said, and so I fired up Google and went to work.  His full name is Anthony David Yee, and I found several articles in different northern California newspapers.  From high school, Tony joined the Marine Corps, but from what could be gleaned he ran into trouble and was soon forced out.  From there he spent time in and out of prison, until years later he found himself homeless and alone.  According to an article, Judy wanted nothing further to do with him.  She was living alone.  One day she left home for work.  Later that night, upon returning, she found her son waiting …

… a man of forty five …

… my best friend growing up.

Several days went by, and Judy failed to show for work.  Her coworkers phoned the police, and informed them that Judy was afraid of her son, who had showed up out of the blue days ago seeking shelter.  The cops went to her house, where Tony answered the door.  Inside, the cops found signs of a struggle.  They arrested Tony, and eventually found Judy.

In court, Tony confessed to murdering his mother.  At first he attempted to strangle her with a rope.  When she successfully fought him off, he grabbed a ball-peen hammer … and went to work.  That night, he drove around looking for a place to hide the body.  Out of ideas, he returned to his mother’s home and stuffed her body down a neighbor’s septic tank.  A judge sentenced him to life without parole inside of a high-security California prison.

Several thoughts have come to pass.  Is he inherently evil?  Certainly there’s an argument to be made.  Had he gone crazy and desperate?  Since we were best friends, and considering our debauchery together, am I too inherently evil?  Which, I don’t believe to be true.  Perhaps we become what we nourish, society quick to forgive the criminal antics of a juvenile, but not so much with a man and his murder.  Interesting in that we both joined the Corps, and where he failed I in turn flourished.  What I know of my time in the Corps: we are a rag-tag group of war fighters, comprised of both good and bad men intent to keep evil at bay.  Which again, existentially speaking, puts into question my nature.  In killing other men, I would sleep easy.  In killing his mother, does he?  I wonder if he still dreams?  Or are his nights full of monsters?  Was I there at the turning point of his life, like the night when we stole a truck to drive to Portland and, of all things, watch an Ozzy Osbourne concert?  Was it the night he dropped acid?  The list goes on, and does it even matter?  He nourished the evil inside, his nature be damned.  Although I too feel the evil, always near, I drop to my knees and pray to a God that I hardly believe in.  An illusion perhaps that allows our species civility and life, that governs demonic desires.  Perhaps mankind is inherently evil or good, some percentage of both?  Who really knows?  Pondering the meaning of life is an exercise in futility.  We live, we laugh, some murder, and in the end we all die.

I remember his laugh, and wonder whether it held joy or cruelty.  If he ever knew love?  If we were ever really friends, or associates in crime?

Has he since examined his life?  Have I, and have you?

One night I’ll never forget: we were juniors in high school, and I was spending the night at his house, which wasn’t often.  Judy and her husband went off to bed.  Before long they were having sex.  It was obvious.  Tony and I were sitting in front of the television set, high on weed.  The living room was dark, just the glow of the television set.  He grabbed the remote control, and turned down the volume, which had the effect of amplifying the sounds from the master bedroom.  He looked at me, and didn’t break eye contact.  Just looked at me with the dead and hateful eyes of a Rottweiler, and didn’t say a word.  Looked at me until I got up and walked away, into the bedroom, closing the door.  Was he embarrassed?  Did he hate his mother for loving another man?  Who knows, but after all these years I know the look in his eyes while he waited for his mother to come home from work.  How he sat in the darkness with the television on and the volume turned down.  Sat for her, and waited.

Dear Diary

I’ve run a few marathons.  I’ve done a million pushups, and twice as many sit-ups.  I’ve hiked a few mountains.  I joined the Marine Corps, and thrived.  I went to Pensacola and flew navy airplanes, and even went to war.  I ate shit out of a plastic bag, and had a navy doc shoot me up with Anthrax vaccine.  I’ve seen the enemy, and they have seen me.

I’ve had the flu, and had it coming out both ends.  I’ve had broken bones, had surgery, a broken heart, and watched my dad slowly die.

I did calculus and advanced physics, aeronautical engineering, stuff that I still don’t fully understand.

I’ve had conversations with irrational women, but are there any other kind?  Boom!

But nothing, nothing, is harder than being a parent.  It kicks my ass and warms my heart.  I laugh and cry, and wonder how in the hell those three little creatures have come from my loins?  I want to hug them, and then sneak up behind them, and strangle them.  I can’t imagine my life without them, but when I do … I smile.  Bliss!

I want to be a better man, and husband, and especialy father, but oftentimes I fall short of these expectations.  I try, and won’t give up.

Mostly, I’m there for them, screaming for them to clean up their goddamn bedrooms.  To pick up after themselves.  Seriously.  What’s so hard about picking up your underwear … Gabi?  Yeah, you!  I love you, now turn off that damn computer and go to bed.  And laugh all you want Matthew, Chloe, ha-freaking-ha!  What with the Legos all over the place and sneaking rolos from the candy jar, running around the store like freaking lunatics.  Does this look like an insane asylum to you?  No?  That’s because it’s the produce aisle.

I don’t read the books on parenting; I trust my instincts, but not always.  Sometimes my instincts tell me to drop them off at the bus stop with twenty bucks and a crisp salute.  Horrible, I know.  That’s ten bucks too much.

I see their flaws, realize they are my own, and here I thought that I was perfect.  I’m not.  I’m a writer, pilot, and a United States Marine.  I’m a husband, and especially a father.  I’m the bigger lunatic in the produce aisle, chasing three crazy kids with carrots in my hands.  No, it’s not the insane asylum.  That’s our house, and I can’t imagine it any other way.

Dear Blog

First off, let me apologize for the neglect.  It’s been a while since our last visit, and I’m sorry.  I take you for granted, Blog.  Assume that you will always be here, which is wrong of me.  My bad.  Seriously, what if you come down with a virus or something?  What if the NSA locks you away, and you go from all of my pleasantness to a life behind bars, and now you’re hearing about sodomy and vile prison endeavors?  What if someone makes you his bitch, or what if I have underestimated you and you make someone yours?  What if you’re not who I think you are?  What if you’re scheming against me, right this very second?  What if you’re laughing at me, judging me?  And here I am apologizing to you.  Perhaps it’s the guilt in me, injected by the catholic church.  An image of Jesus on the cross, dying for me, of all people.  Doesn’t even ask, just says, “Hey.  Asshole.  I’m dying for you.  Deal with it.”  I want to go back in time and tell him not to bother, certainly not on my account.  Who needs the burden?  But I can hear Him now: “Yeah, this crown of thorns, your fault.  These nails in my hands and in my feet?  You’re welcome.  No no, it’s okay.  I’ll take this one for the team, you just keep on sinning, that’s fine.”

I want to say, “Dear Jesus, leave my dumb ass out of this.  Seriously.  What, you can’t just die like everyone else, you gotta make a spectacle of it all?”

“Well, you want salvation, don’t you?  Heaven and shit like that?”

“There’s gotta be a better way to heaven and shit than all of this nonsense.”

“If there is, no one told me about it.”

“So why didn’t you ask Him, about a better way and all?”

“Who?  God?  Just between you and me, we’re on the outs.”

“You’re on the outs with God?”

“I’m not the first person that He’s had problems with.”

“But you’re His son.”

“That’s what I said, only He replied: ‘Why me?'”

“God said that?”

“God has said a lot of things.  Said this whole thing was a publicity stunt, an attempt to steal His thunder.  The nerve.”

“He makes a good point.  Like, first there was God, and now what, he’s gotta share the stage with you?  A bit of a power grab, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not a bad idea, though, right?  If not me, sooner or later somebody else would’ve had the same idea.  Imagine Mark, the son of God.  Or Timothy?  Ahmad H. Christ.  It just doesn’t ring, does it?  No.  You’re better off with me.  Jesus Horacheo Christ, eternally begotten of the Father.”

“So all of this is a freaking scam?  Is that what you’re saying?”

“Certainly that’s what the Jews are saying.  What?  Are you a Jew?”

“No, but I’m giving it some thought.”

“What about Christmas?  And eggnog?  And candy at Easter time?  There’s been some good of this, and I was going to die sooner or later anyway so why not liven it up a bit?”

“I do like opening up presents, and the whole Santa coming down the chimney is fun for the kids.”

“Who is stealing thunder from whom?  Seriously, that Saint Nick has been a pain in my ass since the third century.”

“It’s his topnotch PR campaign.”

“Yes, but what about me?  The whole life after death bit?  How does it get any better than that?”

“That’s so abstract.  Whereas I can see and touch Christmas paper, can smell a Christmas tree.  You have yet to tell me what to expect in Heaven.  At least the Muslims get 72 virgins.  What am I supposed to get?”


“Ever eat a deep dish Chicago-style pizza with a pint of Sam Adams beer?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“I know, right?  So why couldn’t you have promised something like that?  Or a blow job?  But no, all we get for a lifetime of guilt is bliss?  Jesus H. Christ.  What’s wrong with you?”

“I guess that I didn’t think it all the way through.  Goddamnit!”

“Ah, don’t be so hard on yourself.  I have a feeling that the people are going to love you anyway.  The water to wine bit?  Genius.”

“That was a nice touch, wasn’t it?”

“You just didn’t follow through with it.  Why couldn’t Heaven be a waterfall, and you’d turn that to wine?”

“Christ, you think of everything.  What else?”

“And it’s not 72 virgins, but 73 naked virgins, in heat.  You know, up the ante a little.  Maybe recruit a few over to your team.”

“Where were you when all this was going down?”

“I wasn’t yet born, Jesus.  A time machine brought me here, which is another thing that you could have promised.  Oh, and an iPhone, with unlimited minutes and texting.  People worship the shit out of their iPhones.”

“Hey, Jimmy?”

“It’s Jim, and what is it?”

“I’m getting sleepy, Jimmy.  So sleepy.”

“It’s the blood, Jesus.  So much blood.”

“For you, Jimmy.  Don’t forget, I did this all for you.”

“I really wish that you wouldn’t have.”

So I’m sorry, Blog, for neglecting you.  I’ll try harder, promise.

In the name of the Father, Ahmad, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.

Huh, He’s right.  Jesus Christ is better.




I know that I’m not supposed to like Starbucks, the evil empire.  They have squeezed out the mom and pop shops.  They’re intrusive.  Expensive.  Hire mostly part-time workers.  But damn if their coffee isn’t tasty.  And it’s an addiction I’m willing to pay for.  Imagine how much heroine costs, or marijuana.  For that matter, look at the cost of most prescription drugs, of which I take zero.  So this is how I justify the five-dollar cup of joe.  I say to my wife, “Hey, I could be spending that money on hookers!”

“A five-dollar hooker?” she replies.

“How would I know?”

Typically, I get the black eye, which is brewed coffee with a shot of espresso.  I grab the organic apple juice and a pastry.  I then join the crowd of jerkoffs on their computers and act like I’m up to something big.  I’m not.  I’m writing crap like this and getting high on caffeine.  I watch the people come inside and wonder where they go.

Right now it’s 8:23 a.m. in Oakland, California, and there are eight people in line.  There are cops and men in reflective vests.  There’s a black girl with hair like Cindy Loo Hoo, and she has no idea that I’m writing about her.  There’s a Vietnam vet (I know because he’s wearing a hat), and a very important man in a cell phone conversation.

Seeing the hat reminds me of war.  And now I’m wondering if anyone is wearing a bomb.  I’ve been to the Middle East, and I thought about this more then.  If not a bomb, I wonder if people are packing heat, or mace.  There’s a lady who must weight three-hundred pounds, and I’m quite certain that she’s packing ass.  Boom!

Okay, that wasn’t nice.  I’m sure she has a thyroid disorder.  But seriously, most of the folks are overweight.  Even the cop has a gut.  He’s standing right in front of me now, eating an egg sandwich and looking out the window, scanning for criminals I imagine.  I bet if I steal his gun and call him fatty he won’t be able to catch me.  Looking at his belt, I’m wondering how I’d do that.  His pistol is all snapped in tight, and so what if I don’t make a clean pull?  What if he kicks my ass in Starbucks, and some film student get’s it all on his cell phone and posts it to the web?  Imagine my immortal humiliation.  Okay.  He’s gone now, taking my temptations with him.  Still, I believe that I would have come out on top.

In walks a small black guy with a big-ass mug.  Christ, what’s he going to put in there?  It’s almost as big as that fat lady’s ass (who has a thyroid problem).

I look at all these wonderful people, and wonder if I can beat them up.  (The war-hat has put me in this mood.)   A fifty-year-old lady just walked by on her way to the restroom, giving me the evil eye.  Yeah, I could kick her ass for sure.

One bald guy, two bald guys, and a man in a blue trench coat at the end of the line.  I could take all three at the same time.  “Put ’em up, put ’em up!”

I’m not a violent person, seriously, they could easily be my friends.  But should they come at me and try to steal my wallet, I’m ready.  After all, they’re strangers, and they probably drive vans.  A bald man in a van, we’ve seen it all before.  They throw you in back and chop you up into bloody bits and pieces.  No way.  I’ve had my caffeine and I’m ready.  Bring it on, bitches.

But they don’t bring it on.  They get their coffee and walk away … to their vans.

This just in: the small black guy with the big-ass mug is drinking tea.  I walked up to the sugar counter to throw away my napkin, and took a peek inside.  There were several tea bags with steaming water, and he was pouring in sugar like a madman.

“Are you going to drink all of that?”

“What’s it to you, motherfucker?”

Okay, that conversation didn’t happen, but I imagine it would have had I asked.  He didn’t look the friendly, chatty type.

There’s a lady wheeling a suitcase, and there’s a guy at another table, looking at me.  Is he writing about me, too?  The sonofabitch.  Does he think he can kick my ass?  Does he want to be friends?  He’s old and frail and I think that I can take him.

I don’t always think this way, but I always sit with my back to the wall, and in a corner if I can.  An active part of my reptilian brain knows that there are dangers out there, and that if you’re not my friend you might well be my enemy.  You might think that this is a horrible way to go through life, but I’m fine with it.  Mankind is the monster beneath our beds.  They are the ghosts in the night.  That’s just the way it is.

There’s a criminal sitting down with a cap on his head.  I don’t trust him.  He’s shifty.

I prejudge everyone.  There’s a Mexican guy with a latte.  He’s out the door now and I know exactly where he’s going to work.  It’s a lazy and horrible to think, I know, but I’m fine with it.  There’s an attractive lady in spandex, and I know exactly how she’d be in bed.  Horrible of me to think this way, I know.

The shifty guy with the hat just got up to leave, and his pants are falling down.   Seriously, he’s walking away holding up his pants.  How could he possibly fight with his hands gripping jeans?  He’d put up his dukes and his pants would drop to his ankles.

The war has done this to me.  I spent fourteen years in the Marine Corps, and this is the thanks that I get.  Paranoia.  My back to the wall so that I can scan the room for dangers.  And no, I’m not a PTSD head case, thank you very much.  There’s residue, is all, and you learn to cope with it.

Archie is sitting next to me now.  I know because he’s wearing a name tag.  And there’s a motherly type with a dark coat and a burgundy purse.  She’s white.  She grabs her sandwich, and as she leaves she says “hi” to Archie.  Politely, perhaps a bit confused, he says “hi” back.  She stops and seems embarrassed.

“Oh, I sorry,” she says.  “I thought you were someone else.”

“That’s okay.”

“You look exactly like a guy I work with.”

“So, you’re saying that all black men look alike?”

No, Archie didn’t say that last sentence.  He probably thought it instead.

My coffee is almost done.  It was good.  Time to go and do something productive with my day.  I think I’ll work out, and then do some more writing.  I’m making corrections to a book.  It takes a lot of thought.  Perhaps I’ll come back for an afternoon cup.

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?

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