TURKEY DAY, SHMURKEY DAY

Amongst the delicious gluttony that this weekend allows and invites, I want to offer some humble words of thanks in amongst the crapulent voracity, canned cranberries and second helpings.

I have to preface this by saying that this is about Canadian Thanksgiving. For my American kin, I realize that you have your day later in the year and it involves more floats than we usually use. I can assure you its the same day/ritual schematic; Mom makes the bird and you watch football and have the same fight with your father that you always have and you get bored waiting for dinner and you get bored watching football so you drink some more and find yourself telling your brother in law why nobody in the family likes him. The house smells great but you teeter on that psychotic razor edge that is I've had enough to drink, thank you and one more sip and I am going to throw the gravy boat through the television.
Besides being what can be described as a veritable harvest of hurt feelings. Thanksgiving is also the slut of the Holidays. With her secular roots and buckle shoes she teases us with promises of breasts , legs and thighs. And butter soft sweet nothings serenading us about handmade stuffing, not to mention the half-a-chub we get by the mere suggestion of that fowl menage a trois, the turducken.

And even a blind man knows that sometimes pie means more than 3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164.

Thanksgiving is the only day off that dares you to unbutton your pants. In fact Thanksgiving is hurt if you don't. Even Valentines Day makes you buy it a box of chocolates first.

Wait...what was my point?

junus raro stomachus vulgaria temnit as old Horace said