Not So Tasty, Really
Damn those TASTY bastards, they totally ruined my Thanksgiving!
There we were, all set to sit down at a rustic table groaning under the weight of a plethora of Thanksgiving Day goodies, when those nippleheads suddenly burst through the door.
(Bad writing observation: How does one not "suddenly" burst through a door? Can it be done leisurely? I think not. Just a tip from your friendly Uncle Chuckie, kids -- if an action is, by nature, sudden, don't doll it up by saying it happened suddenly.)
Anyway. Clad OJ style in black Gucci sweat suits, black Bruno Magli shoes and black watch caps from the Bullock's "SubUrban Homie" collection, the TASTY commandos burst suddenly through the door. Armed with Spanish bolos (the weapon, not the tie), they incapacitated us before they'd even cleared the foyer, binding us tightly to our chairs so we could do little but watch as they performed their pointless little act of Thanksgiving sabotage.
First they disposed of the turkey. They dragged our chairs to the back door so we could watch as they performed several funerals for the bird, one for each major religion and a final, smaller ceremony for the one who called himself "Greg" and professed to be a Mormon Shintoist. Following the tearful ceremonies, they dug a hole right in the middle of Beth's agapantha bed and buried our dinner's centerpiece there, thus ruining all her hard gardening work -- and a perfectly good turkey, too.
Then they came back inside and ate the rest of the food, and let me tell you, they were pigs. No table manners at all. Eating with their fingers, burping, slurping when they drank, blowing bubbles in their milk, elbows on the table, napkins tucked into their turtlenecks, wiping fingers on sleeves, talking with their mouths full... It was disgusting. Emily Post would have been appalled -- twice, considering she wouldn't have thought much of their showing up for dinner uninvited in the first place.
After dinner they retired to the den, where they watched football all afternoon and spilled beer and pretzels all over the couch. At halftime they had a big argument about who would make for a better Superbowl halftime show, Barry Manilow or Celine Deon, and they ultimately settled on Elton John, provided he did an a capella version of Crocodile Rock and closed with Candle In The Wind.
After the game they took turns violating my dogs until I gave up my log-in password, then they came up to my office and uploaded that silly entry to this journal and spent several hours changing the wallpaper on my computer to their logo, all my system sounds to It's A Small World After All, configuring my mouse for left-handed use, and changing my mouse cursor to a turkey with a hatchet chasing a butcher.
And then, as a final piece de resistance, the one who called himself "Tim" did the old "watch me whip the tablecloth off without moving the silverware" trick, ripping our Irish linen tablecloth in half and launching everything on the table into the living room. Now we've got gravy stains on the wall, green bean casserole in the chandelier, scalloped potatoes in the fireplace and quiche ground into the carpet. And they left behind a tofu turkey for us to "snack on later -- it's good, you'll like it." It wasn't and we didn't.
So, basically, my Thanksgiving sucked. And how was yours?
