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
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
I worked like a dog for this damn holiday.
Pass the peas.