Please don't feed PickleMan
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by: Max Burbank

Lord, we thank Thee.

For family and friends, for safety, for the beauty of the land as it yields to winter. For home and hearth, though not literally, as we have natural gas forced hot water heating but thanking your for natural gas forced hot water heating doesn’t really swing, poetry-wise.

Thanks unto you for the bounty we are about to receive, and I personally intend to receive a lot of bounty, particularly in the liquor department, a bounty for which I am especially grateful at this time of year. Thanks not just on this day of gorging but on all days of the year when I eat in a single meal what many you favor less would eat in a week. Thank you particularly for the days I tell the wife I am ‘sticking’ to my ‘diet’ when in fact I go to the food court at the mall on my lunch break and they fix me up a triple helping of barbecued pork at the Chinese without my even asking, because they know of my deep, abiding affection for hot, crimson pork. Thank you for stretchy pants.

Thank you for Tryptophan or Booze or Denial or whatever the hell it is that allows me to slip into a near coma shortly after unbuttoning my stretchy pants, thus allowing me the bounty of staying out of whatever old scabs my extended family feels it’s traditional to pick whenever we gather.

Thank you for my children and the Halloween candy I have stolen from them a few pieces a day since Halloween. Thank you also for their piggybanks without which I would not be able to afford the Nip Bottles I hide in desk drawer now the wife has me on an allowance and thanks also to their generous grandparents without whom the children’s piggybanks would not be so regularly stuffed. Thanks to the very words "nip bottles" which make me think of miniature Japanese with huge, racially offensive, buck teeth and thick, round glasses so that I sit at my desk and laugh, mystifying my colleagues.

And thanks for my colleagues, horrible human cubicle rats though they may be, for without their craven scuttling before the bosses, their fear and trembling before the timeclock, not to mention the copy machine and for that matter the stapler, I would never have those moments between bouts of utter despair where I realize how gloriously superior I am, how perfect and glowing and dominant, so that they are as insects before me, insects whom I might crush without regret or perhaps enslave and force to dance for me, dance in wanton abandon.

Thanks for the internet and it’s bounty of readily available, free, Highly specific pornography and thanks particularly for access to the internet at work so that the precious soul you gave me might not be utterly crushed by the pointless, inane, drudgery demanded of me by The System in return for enough money to survive and gain access to inadequate health care provided by a complicated system of accountants.

Thanks for letting me be born in modern America so that I can feel rage over petty annoyances unnoticed by most people not just on earth but throughout human history, Stinking vermin who never once knew the joy of screaming at the driver in front of them who has not noticed the light turned green well over a second ago, thanks for violent, overpaid athletes and smug, sanctimonious politicians utterly corrupted by relatively small amounts of money, free travel, hotels and occasional professional oral sex; Thanks to all the many, many, many of your children who devoutly believe your message is to kill anyone who doesn’t know your message is what they say it is, up to and including every aspect of my thoughts, my words, and what I do with my wiener which is so obviously not really my wiener, but merely an aspect your Divine wiener on loan to me for the sole purpose of not using it.

Oh, and thanks in particular for not making me a turkey which at this special time of year would particularly suck. Unless you’re about to have an advanced Alien Race visit earth and seem all nice and give us world peace and the cure to cancer when what their really doing is fattening us up to eat at the inter species thanksgiving dinner we’re the ‘guests of honor’ at, and as we howl with indignity, in the distance a Native American, all of whom the Aliens spare, sheds a single tear of irony, a cryptic homage to Iron Eyes Cody who tried to warn us by weeping over pollution but we didn’t give a little tin crap then and we still don’t so INTO THE ALIEN BELLY WE GO!!

‘Cause if that’s what you’re up to, Lord, you can stuff the ‘Thanks’.

I worked like a dog for this damn holiday.

Pass the peas.


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