Don’t have much time right now as the annual Socrates Late November Mid-Week Poultry Feast is in progress here at The Compound and I think they want me to go outside to judge the homemade explosives competition. I’m pretty sure Uncle Cloyster, the potato farmer from Northern Maine, is once again a heavy favorite with another of his PVC and plastique masterpieces. Not to worry, though, all the craters we make in the West Field come in handy in late December when we do our yearly live ammo re-enactment of the Battle of the Bulge.
Today we battle a bulge of another kind. I’ve already let my belt out three notches and the second round of hors d’oeurves isn’t even out of the oven. We do things big here, as you might imagine. For instance, what you would call Pigs in Blankets we call Wart Hogs in Industrial Insulation. The turkey this year is a 37 pounder (god knows what sort of steroids or radiactivity this thing was subjected to to make it grow to such mutant size levels). We’re going to try and cook it over a spit out back. In fact, I need to head out there and make sure the concussive charges from the explosives contest haven’t knocked it over.
Anyway, to all my friends scattered about the globe I wish you a wonderful day of rampaging gluttony and extensive, quality napping. Those of you with money riding on Detroit going winless this season look to have a care-free day, so enjoy that. My own bookie will have a quiet day. The only wager I’ve placed is that, at some point, Donovan McNabb will vomit on the sidelines in the Eagles/Cardinals game.
When are they going to move this goddamn holiday to a Sunday or something? I mean, there’s already football on on then.