|A turkey? A bunch of rebel fighters attacking the Death Star? 'A' for effort; 'F' for execution, kid.|
Thanksgiving is one of my favorite times of year. It signals the point at which I throw away 11 months of vigilance over my financial budget and spend like a Michael Jackson in a creepy mannequin store.
It brings me closer to my family. Yes, closer to the people I purposely moved away from.
It brings lots of drinking which, in turn, lowers inhibitions which, in another turn, allows us all to tell each other what we really think. You know that old saying, ‘What starts with the pop of a wine cork, ends with a splash of “Shut the hell up, motherfucker!”’
And the eating? Oh, the humanity! It’s elastic-waisted wind pants season, my friends. It comes in with a turkey and leaves six weeks later amidst the confetti and empty bottles with a serving of shame and despair. The only good thing about all of this eating? The pooping. Sometimes twice a day! You can imagine all of the reading I get done too.
But we are runners and so we can run our calories away. Want that extra scoop of mashed potatoes? Run an extra mile. Want another piece of your Aunt’s pecan pie? Eat up, your shoes are right over there. Add two miles, please. There’s another old saying: “You can take what you want but you run what you eat.” It goes something like that…
In case you’ve forgotten, food goes here:
|1990's goatee! (Not me)|
And if you are dog people:
We plan to celebrate a “traditional” Thanksgiving this year. Along with the turkey and squash and corn, half of us are going to get smallpox and the other half will steal our cars while we writhe around in agony.
Now, let's get our uvula massage on!
* In Lions fan lexicon, a “win” is described as losing by less than 2 touchdowns.