When I first decided to write about Thanksgiving, I figured I'd just write about the year that I got maced by my brother. Long story short, my mom used to carry mace. One Thanksgiving morning, my brother Billy sprayed it into the central heating duct, getting it all over everything, including me. The first thing you do when you wake up is rub your eyes and use the bathroom, so I got mace all up in my eyes and dick. Just awesome.
Then maybe I thought about writing about how miserable I was for every Thanksgiving, and how I hate my family and how we always fight and the fact that every occasion is marred by arguments and that the only thing I ever enjoyed doing with anyone in my family was playing cribbage with my grandfather for hours on end.
This led to my hatred of holidays. They really just make me sick, straight through to the core. The anticipation of the fights and the passive-aggressive shittiness. I just dread the final sixth of the year.
I'm just not in the mood to write about that anymore, though. I'm pretty happy. I just had a really amazing Thanksgiving. The first one ever, really. Fellow WWWriter Katie McMahon came over and made sweet potatoes and a green bean casserole. I cooked chicken (which I'm usually pretty afraid of – I still hate cooking meat, despite not being a vegetarian for a few years now). I watched football and did all kinds of Thanksgivingy stuff. I even ate some pie. Look at that. Pie.
What I'm saying is nothing bad happened. I enjoyed a holiday. Insane, right? Yeah. It really was. A few topics ago, I wrote about how, no matter how much you love your friends, your family is your family and they can never be replaced – whether you hate them or not. I still believe that. My mom is still an awful woman who has never and will never cook. My aunts are still miserable. I'll never get those years of loathing back, and that's fine. I'm just thankful to have had one good one.
---
Hello writers. I'm thankful for you. Have I said that lately? It's true, y'know. I'm not one for being maudlin, but there's nothing I enjoy more than all of you.
Do me a favor, everyone. Send in some essays. I literally have nothing this week. NOTHING. From anyone. I blame one Nathaniel Hoyt for coming up with a subject that nobody wanted to write about. JERK. Nah, he's fine. Whatever. Just send me an essay. Could be about anything. Just write something. Send it in. Hopefully it's good?
Listen, next Friday is lies and lying. Send in essays, you liars. Please. PLEASE.
Please.
Grosses bises,
Josh Grimmer, Editor-in-Chief.
Josh Grimmer lives in North Hollywood with his wife and cat. He kinda sorta runs this blog, and has another one at http://mousebed.blogspot.com. Twitter him up at http://twitter.com/JoshGrimmer
Showing posts with label Thanksgiving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thanksgiving. Show all posts
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Kim Harmeling: Thankful
Life is funny sometimes
When least expected lessons of
Appreciation come out of nowhere
To hit us in the head
One day gasping for air
Finds me a hospital stay for days
Waiting to see what the end
Result will be
All plans reset to start
To be recast through the lens
Of newly realized priorities
And shorter deadlines
How then to cope
With lesser abilities and
More restrictions but
The same expectations?
Appreciation of small things
Savored at a slower pace
I am just breathing
Thankful
Kim Harmeling lives in the Cascade foothills with her husband and as many dogs as he’ll let her adopt. Sometimes she writes something worthwhile, hopeful someone will be interested enough to read it.
When least expected lessons of
Appreciation come out of nowhere
To hit us in the head
One day gasping for air
Finds me a hospital stay for days
Waiting to see what the end
Result will be
All plans reset to start
To be recast through the lens
Of newly realized priorities
And shorter deadlines
How then to cope
With lesser abilities and
More restrictions but
The same expectations?
Appreciation of small things
Savored at a slower pace
I am just breathing
Thankful
Kim Harmeling lives in the Cascade foothills with her husband and as many dogs as he’ll let her adopt. Sometimes she writes something worthwhile, hopeful someone will be interested enough to read it.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Nathaniel Hoyt: A Thanksgiving Miracle
Deep under the big city, connected to the labyrinth of sewers and infrastructure that maintain the lives of countless creatures above, there is a special room. Stout metal ribs gird this chamber and arc to a point at the top of its dome. At that spot where they come together is a square grate, through which a pale white light seeps in, falling in curly motes to the ground far below. It is impossible to tell how far up the shaft reaches, how long it takes for such a quiet light to sink into the deep earth. The light is faint, ghostly, and reveals little, but it is precious.
For scale, assume that a city is mirrored above and below, the way a tree and its roots reflect each other. Then, consider the boundless sprawl of the particular city above. The vast tangle and knot coiled beneath the lowest streets is enough to make a reasonable person swoon. A reasonable person would also agree that it was a bit of pretty good fucking luck, then, that the young man and his robot should have found this one place, unique of all places, at all.
In this quiet spot, removed from the noisiest arteries of the sewers, the young man and his robot had camped for almost a year. At least it was dry, and it did feature the only natural light one could find for miles. Still, the décor was a bit uninspired. In fact, if it weren't so depressing one would almost describe it as vagrant-kitsch: over there a tattered tent made of rags, over here a fire pit, over there a couple of buckets, probably with holes in them just for effect. And more debris scattered around: a few paperback books molting their faded pages away, a stained shirt draped disintegrating over a rock. However, amongst all of this irrelevant miscellany, one thing, as they say, brought it all together: beneath the diffuse light from the vent above had grown a tree to about a foot in diameter before it was felled. And on this tree stump, in a sepulchral gloom, far below the earth, in the middle of a damp stain, alone and glistening, lay a beating heart.
The young man kneels, his robot beside him. Their eyes fixate on the heart. Lying there, sadly defenseless and futile, it makes desperate wheezing and gasping noises as it inhales and exhales through its empty ventricles.
The young man, wearing a dusty green uniform of sorts, suddenly reaches one finger out and touches the heart. He presses in slightly, forming a small dimple. He slides his finger down over the ventricle, leaving an oily wake. The heart continues pumping, dumb and persistent. He pulls his hand back and holds it, shaking slightly, before his eyes. Swift as a snake, the young man darts his tongue out and licks the tip of his finger, then vigorously wipes his hands on his pants legs.
“I guess it's ready,” he says. The robot nods. Its long, many-jointed limbs are always angled inwards. It appears to be always huddling against a cold wind. Its red eyes provide no illumination, but brood privately from deep within a metallic cowl.
The young man is quiet for a moment, staring ahead contemplatively, until a smirk nearly eclipses his whole face. “Do you remember what I had to do to get it,” he asks, nearly sputtering over his own laughter. The robot nods stoically, for robots do not forget. In an almost obscene guffaw, the young man doubles over in laughter, little diamond tears appearing at each outer corner of his large pale eyes. “And how he said- how he said,--” he trailed off in laughter, leaving the rest implicit. The robot nods. The young man aborts his laughter with a sharp intake of breath, and holds it. He sighs. “Then they'll probably be here soon.”
The young man looks to the round portal that leads to the sewers. From his vest pocket he pulls out a pair of binoculars, places them to his eyes and adjusts the light settings. Black ghosts dart past the entrance, like spectral arrowheads volleyed from either side. Back and forth they fly, and then suddenly,
creeping around a corner appears the first of many rats, company the boy had been expecting, dreading. It stops at the entrance, half in and half out, stabbing its long pointed nose at the air with one paw raised. It takes a few steps in and stands up. The young man stands too. They are about the same height, both mangy but lithe, scrawny and strong too. More rats appear behind their leader, slinking in, taking a few darting steps at a time. More and more, until the entire entrance is crowded with them, each crawling over the back of the other, overflowing into the room.
The robot slowly unfolds two long arms, and holds them steadily parallel to the ground.
The rat's voice irks the young man terribly. The edges of his words are sharp and cut short. He slides together pauses, but then halts unexpectedly. He notices the binoculars in the young man's hands. "Ah! You have a, a, a--. For the--- fire. And, and, and the heart--. So very---- well done."
"Thank you Labrot," the young man says, trying to sound steady, easy.
The rat turns his attention to the robot. "The--- metal-man is--- a good friend isn't he?"
"Yeah. A very good friend."
"And the heart. The, the------ the heart." The boy thinks Labrot seems unusually distracted as he pauses to sniff at the beating heart. Labrot whips around to the boy, who instinctively recoils from the foul acrid breath seeping between the rat's stained lips. "Do-we-shall-begin?"
Ceremoniously, the young man reaches his binoculars up and holds them in a line with the light trickling down from above. He fiddles with the dials on the lenses, then keeps his arms as still as he can.
(A terribly long silence.)
A gray noodle of smoke rises as the heart begins to smolder. It turns darker, becomes a ribbon, becomes a cloud, turns black, becomes a haze, then flames burst from its side and whip upwards as flesh peels retreating from the conflagration. The burning heart beats faster and faster as the smoke unfolds deeper and darker. Its wheezing gasping becomes panting rasping as flames bite away at purple flesh. The young man lowers his arms. All watch expectantly, silently, as the heart burns brighter, until the flames become an opaque white veil that is blinding to behold. Presently, the flame dies. The heart is gone. Just a modest pile of ashes scatter around the tree stump. The young man lets out a long breath. Labrot twitches his nose and scratches at the ground. The rest of the rats begin to shift in agitation.
“Does--- it work?”
“We won't know until summer.”
“When is that?”
"We won't know for a long time.”
Labrot seems displeased by this answer. “No, not good--- quickly, now we--- don't wait. Can't.” The rats writhe and squirm behind him, growing increasingly agitated.
The young man takes a step back, startled by the urgency in Labrot's tone and well aware of his combustive temper. “It takes time, Labrot. I told you. This is just the first part. It should work, but we won't know for a while.”
“No! Not waiting. Do you remember? How you got? What you did? Very upset, took--- many rats!”
The young man looks down, ashamed for laughing about that incident just minutes ago. It was true, many rats had died that day, and to help him too. He knows he has his part of the bargain to uphold, but what he is saying is true: these things take time. Everybody knows that.
“No longer friend. You've made tricks on us. Many--- rats call you demon, call---- you bad spirit! Many rats dead!” Unable to hold back his nervous rage, Labrot springs at the young man, his face turning hellishly malicious. The young man has just a fraction of a moment to see Labrot's bright sharp teeth flying towards him, just a moment to open his mouth but not enough to scream. And then a red flash and a sharp whip-crack sound startles the entire room into silence. Labrot now lies a broken, bloody pile, thrown against the ribbed walls of the chamber with unfathomable force. The robot retracts it's metal fist, uncurls its many joints and stands tall, towering over the young man and nearly filling the room. The rats stare up at the red-eyed terror and then scatter, disappearing as swift as a snuffed flame.
The robot huddles back over, like a very tired person. The young man kneels back down at the tree stump. He stirs the pile of ashes with one finger, resting his head on his arm on the edge. He looks up to the sky as if he's heard a sound. “This had better work,” he says.
For scale, assume that a city is mirrored above and below, the way a tree and its roots reflect each other. Then, consider the boundless sprawl of the particular city above. The vast tangle and knot coiled beneath the lowest streets is enough to make a reasonable person swoon. A reasonable person would also agree that it was a bit of pretty good fucking luck, then, that the young man and his robot should have found this one place, unique of all places, at all.
In this quiet spot, removed from the noisiest arteries of the sewers, the young man and his robot had camped for almost a year. At least it was dry, and it did feature the only natural light one could find for miles. Still, the décor was a bit uninspired. In fact, if it weren't so depressing one would almost describe it as vagrant-kitsch: over there a tattered tent made of rags, over here a fire pit, over there a couple of buckets, probably with holes in them just for effect. And more debris scattered around: a few paperback books molting their faded pages away, a stained shirt draped disintegrating over a rock. However, amongst all of this irrelevant miscellany, one thing, as they say, brought it all together: beneath the diffuse light from the vent above had grown a tree to about a foot in diameter before it was felled. And on this tree stump, in a sepulchral gloom, far below the earth, in the middle of a damp stain, alone and glistening, lay a beating heart.
The young man kneels, his robot beside him. Their eyes fixate on the heart. Lying there, sadly defenseless and futile, it makes desperate wheezing and gasping noises as it inhales and exhales through its empty ventricles.
The young man, wearing a dusty green uniform of sorts, suddenly reaches one finger out and touches the heart. He presses in slightly, forming a small dimple. He slides his finger down over the ventricle, leaving an oily wake. The heart continues pumping, dumb and persistent. He pulls his hand back and holds it, shaking slightly, before his eyes. Swift as a snake, the young man darts his tongue out and licks the tip of his finger, then vigorously wipes his hands on his pants legs.
“I guess it's ready,” he says. The robot nods. Its long, many-jointed limbs are always angled inwards. It appears to be always huddling against a cold wind. Its red eyes provide no illumination, but brood privately from deep within a metallic cowl.
The young man is quiet for a moment, staring ahead contemplatively, until a smirk nearly eclipses his whole face. “Do you remember what I had to do to get it,” he asks, nearly sputtering over his own laughter. The robot nods stoically, for robots do not forget. In an almost obscene guffaw, the young man doubles over in laughter, little diamond tears appearing at each outer corner of his large pale eyes. “And how he said- how he said,--” he trailed off in laughter, leaving the rest implicit. The robot nods. The young man aborts his laughter with a sharp intake of breath, and holds it. He sighs. “Then they'll probably be here soon.”
The young man looks to the round portal that leads to the sewers. From his vest pocket he pulls out a pair of binoculars, places them to his eyes and adjusts the light settings. Black ghosts dart past the entrance, like spectral arrowheads volleyed from either side. Back and forth they fly, and then suddenly,
creeping around a corner appears the first of many rats, company the boy had been expecting, dreading. It stops at the entrance, half in and half out, stabbing its long pointed nose at the air with one paw raised. It takes a few steps in and stands up. The young man stands too. They are about the same height, both mangy but lithe, scrawny and strong too. More rats appear behind their leader, slinking in, taking a few darting steps at a time. More and more, until the entire entrance is crowded with them, each crawling over the back of the other, overflowing into the room.
The robot slowly unfolds two long arms, and holds them steadily parallel to the ground.
The rat's voice irks the young man terribly. The edges of his words are sharp and cut short. He slides together pauses, but then halts unexpectedly. He notices the binoculars in the young man's hands. "Ah! You have a, a, a--. For the--- fire. And, and, and the heart--. So very---- well done."
"Thank you Labrot," the young man says, trying to sound steady, easy.
The rat turns his attention to the robot. "The--- metal-man is--- a good friend isn't he?"
"Yeah. A very good friend."
"And the heart. The, the------ the heart." The boy thinks Labrot seems unusually distracted as he pauses to sniff at the beating heart. Labrot whips around to the boy, who instinctively recoils from the foul acrid breath seeping between the rat's stained lips. "Do-we-shall-begin?"
Ceremoniously, the young man reaches his binoculars up and holds them in a line with the light trickling down from above. He fiddles with the dials on the lenses, then keeps his arms as still as he can.
(A terribly long silence.)
A gray noodle of smoke rises as the heart begins to smolder. It turns darker, becomes a ribbon, becomes a cloud, turns black, becomes a haze, then flames burst from its side and whip upwards as flesh peels retreating from the conflagration. The burning heart beats faster and faster as the smoke unfolds deeper and darker. Its wheezing gasping becomes panting rasping as flames bite away at purple flesh. The young man lowers his arms. All watch expectantly, silently, as the heart burns brighter, until the flames become an opaque white veil that is blinding to behold. Presently, the flame dies. The heart is gone. Just a modest pile of ashes scatter around the tree stump. The young man lets out a long breath. Labrot twitches his nose and scratches at the ground. The rest of the rats begin to shift in agitation.
“Does--- it work?”
“We won't know until summer.”
“When is that?”
"We won't know for a long time.”
Labrot seems displeased by this answer. “No, not good--- quickly, now we--- don't wait. Can't.” The rats writhe and squirm behind him, growing increasingly agitated.
The young man takes a step back, startled by the urgency in Labrot's tone and well aware of his combustive temper. “It takes time, Labrot. I told you. This is just the first part. It should work, but we won't know for a while.”
“No! Not waiting. Do you remember? How you got? What you did? Very upset, took--- many rats!”
The young man looks down, ashamed for laughing about that incident just minutes ago. It was true, many rats had died that day, and to help him too. He knows he has his part of the bargain to uphold, but what he is saying is true: these things take time. Everybody knows that.
“No longer friend. You've made tricks on us. Many--- rats call you demon, call---- you bad spirit! Many rats dead!” Unable to hold back his nervous rage, Labrot springs at the young man, his face turning hellishly malicious. The young man has just a fraction of a moment to see Labrot's bright sharp teeth flying towards him, just a moment to open his mouth but not enough to scream. And then a red flash and a sharp whip-crack sound startles the entire room into silence. Labrot now lies a broken, bloody pile, thrown against the ribbed walls of the chamber with unfathomable force. The robot retracts it's metal fist, uncurls its many joints and stands tall, towering over the young man and nearly filling the room. The rats stare up at the red-eyed terror and then scatter, disappearing as swift as a snuffed flame.
The robot huddles back over, like a very tired person. The young man kneels back down at the tree stump. He stirs the pile of ashes with one finger, resting his head on his arm on the edge. He looks up to the sky as if he's heard a sound. “This had better work,” he says.
Monday, November 22, 2010
J. Allen Holt: A Vegan Thanksgiving
To a lot of people (myself included), Thanksgiving has a very big connection to food, more specifically a big, extravagant meal to be shared with family and friends. Several paragraphs could spew forth from me on the subject of food and Thanksgiving meals. I could write about the virtues of frying your turkey instead of baking it. I could explain to you that just because it’s Thanksgiving, it doesn’t mean I suddenly have to accept pumpkin pie as a real dessert. I could debate which is better: fresh cranberry sauce or the gelatinous cylinder out of the can. Instead, I’m going to turn all my power for hate on tofurkey.
If you don’t know, tofurkey is fake turkey. It’s made from tofu and other horrible things and is fashioned to look like meat. Soybeans are playing the part of turkey in the same way that Jackie Mason played Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack 2. That is to say, poorly. Simply put, tofurkey is a lie.
Why would soybeans lie to you? Or better yet, why would they lie to you on the greatest food holiday of the year? The answer. Tofurkey is what vegans use to feel normal on Thanksgiving. “Hey, we eat turkey, too. Though, we’re better than you because our turkey is made from beans.”
In case you don’t know, vegans aren’t normal. Humans eat flesh, and deciding you have a better idea than the result of thousands and thousands of years of evolution? Well, it’s at the very least not normal. Some may say crazy. I can be in that segment of the populace from time to time, usually when someone is chastising me for my carnivorous ways.
Vegans will tell you about how much healthier tofu is than meat. They’ll even have some scientific sounding stuff to say along with it. You might even get a pamphlet printed on recycled paper. I just don’t feel like I can believe it. If eating vegan is so healthy, why do most vegans look like they’re dying? Do you see the girl with the dark sunken eyes getting blown down the street in the wind like a discarded plastic grocery bag? Probably a vegan. Or a model. Maybe both.
Vegans can do whatever crazy thing they want. PETA can continue to march half-naked (or sometimes full-naked) girls out on the sidewalks to stop the “murder” of animals for the good of humankind. I’m pretty okay with that. It doesn’t work, but it sure can be fun to watch them try. I just want them to leave me and my holiday alone.
No one’s making caracon or baccoli. (Two things I just invented in my head: bacon pressed into the shape of carrots or broccoli.) I’m not trying to trick you into eating meat. I don’t label the real turkeys as “Smart Turkey” implying that by eating the fake ones you are stupid. Sure, I’m thinking it, but I’m keeping it to myself. You see how much nicer that is for everyone involved?
When I sit down to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner this week, I’ll be thankful for the food and everyone who contributed to making the meal enjoyable with their contributions and presence. I will also be thankful that my turkey is real and not a soybean Ashton Kutcher.
If you don’t know, tofurkey is fake turkey. It’s made from tofu and other horrible things and is fashioned to look like meat. Soybeans are playing the part of turkey in the same way that Jackie Mason played Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack 2. That is to say, poorly. Simply put, tofurkey is a lie.
Why would soybeans lie to you? Or better yet, why would they lie to you on the greatest food holiday of the year? The answer. Tofurkey is what vegans use to feel normal on Thanksgiving. “Hey, we eat turkey, too. Though, we’re better than you because our turkey is made from beans.”
In case you don’t know, vegans aren’t normal. Humans eat flesh, and deciding you have a better idea than the result of thousands and thousands of years of evolution? Well, it’s at the very least not normal. Some may say crazy. I can be in that segment of the populace from time to time, usually when someone is chastising me for my carnivorous ways.
Vegans will tell you about how much healthier tofu is than meat. They’ll even have some scientific sounding stuff to say along with it. You might even get a pamphlet printed on recycled paper. I just don’t feel like I can believe it. If eating vegan is so healthy, why do most vegans look like they’re dying? Do you see the girl with the dark sunken eyes getting blown down the street in the wind like a discarded plastic grocery bag? Probably a vegan. Or a model. Maybe both.
Vegans can do whatever crazy thing they want. PETA can continue to march half-naked (or sometimes full-naked) girls out on the sidewalks to stop the “murder” of animals for the good of humankind. I’m pretty okay with that. It doesn’t work, but it sure can be fun to watch them try. I just want them to leave me and my holiday alone.
No one’s making caracon or baccoli. (Two things I just invented in my head: bacon pressed into the shape of carrots or broccoli.) I’m not trying to trick you into eating meat. I don’t label the real turkeys as “Smart Turkey” implying that by eating the fake ones you are stupid. Sure, I’m thinking it, but I’m keeping it to myself. You see how much nicer that is for everyone involved?
When I sit down to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner this week, I’ll be thankful for the food and everyone who contributed to making the meal enjoyable with their contributions and presence. I will also be thankful that my turkey is real and not a soybean Ashton Kutcher.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
101 82 Uses for a Shellacked Gourd
1. Immunity Idol
2. Special “Friend”
3. Bunsen Burner (Gilligan’s Island variety)
4. Ironic Decorative Table Element
5. Company Christmas Bonus
6. Instrument for bludgeoning
7. Self-massager
8. Headdress (Carmen Miranda variety)
9. Shoe Horn
10. Earplug for Giants
11. Percussion instrument
12. Pet (Low maintenance variety)
13. Fly swatter
14. Bikini top (Note: requires two shellacked gourds)
15. Bookmark
16. Flotation device
17. Bicep Falsies
18. Clogs
19. Birdhouse
20. Bathouse
21. House for Small Animal Other Than Bird or Bat
22. Sailboat for Talking Mouse
23. Mr. Shellacked Gourd-head Toy
24. Scrotal Package Enhancer
25. Bike helmet
26. Athletic supporter
27. Place to keep your weed
28. Gift for your in-laws
29. Non-ironic Decorative Table Element
30. Lady Gaga fashion accessory
31. Bath Toy
32. Snack for Andy Richter
33. Muff for Mr. Squash Hands
34. Extremely unsuitable substitute for a basketball
35. Trophy
36. Tie Clip
37. Soup Bowl
38. Accessory to a shellacked Thanksgiving dinner
39. Accessory to a crime involving felons armed with petrified delicata
40. Objet d’art (Williamsburg hipster variety)
41. Object of Scorn and Derision
42. Paperweight
43. Car Seat
44. Fake nose for “Owen Wilson” Halloween Costume
45. Bong
46. Booty Enhancer
47. Neti Pot
48. Chamber Pot
49. New Drummer for The White Stripes
50. New Quarterback for the Minnesota Vikings
51. New Coach for the Dallas Cowboys
52. End-of-year gratuity for the newspaper delivery guy who skips your house every other Sunday
53. Place to keep your porn
54. Yankee Swap gift (Least popular variety)
55. Molotov Cocktail (organic variety)
56. Security bubbie for young child of struggling squash farmers
57. Ceremonial incense burner for touchy-feely Unitarians
58. I.U.D. (Birth control for giantesses variety)
59. I.E.D. (Road-side bomb for crazy, reclusive anti-government squash farmers variety)
60. Tea Cosy
61. Necklace (scoliosis-inducing variety)
62. iPad Case
63. Place to keep the tattered remains of your dignity
64. Passable substitute for fondue pot
65. Passable substitute for scorpion bowl
66. Jewelry box
67. Ammunition for your gourd-slinging trebuchet
68. A hot date (if you play your squash right variety)
69. Name for Billy Corgan’s new band
70. Stylish, semi-biodegradable hip flask
71. Ornament for your Festivus pole
72. Urn for Grandpa’s ashes
73. Codpiece for little-known, underappreciated superhero Captain Pattypan
74. Housewarming gift for new next door neighbors
75. Bitchen’ hood ornament
76. Not so bitchen’ winter hat
77. Horcrux
78. Place to keep your loose change
79. Excellent serving dish for party snacks
80. Condom (Makeshift variety)
81. Doppelganger for new Speaker of the House John Boehner
82. Viable candidate for 2012 presidential election (Tea Party variety)
Special thanks to Lisa Goeden Taylor, Michael Bourque, Doug Harmon, Deirdre Hickok Bridge, Scott Turner, Kim Crabill, Jeff Callahan and the Tabb Family Players for their contributions to this list. We tried to get to 101, but the mountain was just too high. If you have other ideas, leave them in the comments below. And Merry Thanksgiving!
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar
2. Special “Friend”
3. Bunsen Burner (Gilligan’s Island variety)
4. Ironic Decorative Table Element
5. Company Christmas Bonus
6. Instrument for bludgeoning
7. Self-massager
8. Headdress (Carmen Miranda variety)
9. Shoe Horn
10. Earplug for Giants
11. Percussion instrument
12. Pet (Low maintenance variety)
13. Fly swatter
14. Bikini top (Note: requires two shellacked gourds)
15. Bookmark
16. Flotation device
17. Bicep Falsies
18. Clogs
19. Birdhouse
20. Bathouse
21. House for Small Animal Other Than Bird or Bat
22. Sailboat for Talking Mouse
23. Mr. Shellacked Gourd-head Toy
24. Scrotal Package Enhancer
25. Bike helmet
26. Athletic supporter
27. Place to keep your weed
28. Gift for your in-laws
29. Non-ironic Decorative Table Element
30. Lady Gaga fashion accessory
31. Bath Toy
32. Snack for Andy Richter
33. Muff for Mr. Squash Hands
34. Extremely unsuitable substitute for a basketball
35. Trophy
36. Tie Clip
37. Soup Bowl
38. Accessory to a shellacked Thanksgiving dinner
39. Accessory to a crime involving felons armed with petrified delicata
40. Objet d’art (Williamsburg hipster variety)
41. Object of Scorn and Derision
42. Paperweight
43. Car Seat
44. Fake nose for “Owen Wilson” Halloween Costume
45. Bong
46. Booty Enhancer
47. Neti Pot
48. Chamber Pot
49. New Drummer for The White Stripes
50. New Quarterback for the Minnesota Vikings
51. New Coach for the Dallas Cowboys
52. End-of-year gratuity for the newspaper delivery guy who skips your house every other Sunday
53. Place to keep your porn
54. Yankee Swap gift (Least popular variety)
55. Molotov Cocktail (organic variety)
56. Security bubbie for young child of struggling squash farmers
57. Ceremonial incense burner for touchy-feely Unitarians
58. I.U.D. (Birth control for giantesses variety)
59. I.E.D. (Road-side bomb for crazy, reclusive anti-government squash farmers variety)
60. Tea Cosy
61. Necklace (scoliosis-inducing variety)
62. iPad Case
63. Place to keep the tattered remains of your dignity
64. Passable substitute for fondue pot
65. Passable substitute for scorpion bowl
66. Jewelry box
67. Ammunition for your gourd-slinging trebuchet
68. A hot date (if you play your squash right variety)
69. Name for Billy Corgan’s new band
70. Stylish, semi-biodegradable hip flask
71. Ornament for your Festivus pole
72. Urn for Grandpa’s ashes
73. Codpiece for little-known, underappreciated superhero Captain Pattypan
74. Housewarming gift for new next door neighbors
75. Bitchen’ hood ornament
76. Not so bitchen’ winter hat
77. Horcrux
78. Place to keep your loose change
79. Excellent serving dish for party snacks
80. Condom (Makeshift variety)
81. Doppelganger for new Speaker of the House John Boehner
82. Viable candidate for 2012 presidential election (Tea Party variety)
Special thanks to Lisa Goeden Taylor, Michael Bourque, Doug Harmon, Deirdre Hickok Bridge, Scott Turner, Kim Crabill, Jeff Callahan and the Tabb Family Players for their contributions to this list. We tried to get to 101, but the mountain was just too high. If you have other ideas, leave them in the comments below. And Merry Thanksgiving!
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar
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