Posted on 1:56 PM by Tony Spunk
November 24th 2010
It's that time of year again, folks, where we stop pushing our dirty appendages into warm orifices and start thanking people for stuff. Stuff other than warm orifices in which to stick our mansticks I mean. I'd say 'God' instead of 'people', but I'm not totally sure I believe there's some old dude with a beard sitting on a cloud somewhere creating stuff willy nilly. I mean I'm not entirely sure what the hell made us and everything else but I tend to side with the scientific theories; either it was a giant combustion of chemicals or Oprah had something to do with it. Either way, we're here and I'm thankful.
When I was a kid, Thanksgiving was a weird affair. My ma's of Italian stock and my dad was Mexican American so no one seemed too sure about what the hell we were celebrating. However, it did involve troughs of great eatings and enough booze to fill the inside of Sarah Palin's empty skull, therefore, what's not to like when you think about it?
My favorite Thanksgiving was in 1976 when I was ten years old. My folks were on rocky ground at the time due to my dad's predilection for sticking his cock into a wide array of unsavory fare he'd find on the seedy end of the Vegas Strip. My aunt Lola was on probation for running a house of ill repute out in the desert after she was caught accepting $500 to spank the ass of some dude from the Sheriff's department, with a ping pong bat. My uncle Dick was living with two women at the same time in the same house, sorta like a polygamist only without the actual marriage or Bill Paxton looking over his shoulder. We had a weird family to be sure, but for some reason, everyone seemed reasonably happy.
Anyway, we were all there that Thanksgiving, out at my ma's place, eating cornbread and beans instead of turkey and drinking fucking grain alcohol from a barrel. At least my dad and uncle Dick were doing that, mainly because years of playing the southern states with a mariachi band had made their stomachs like asbestos. My dad gave me a bottle of Budweiser to celebrate with. To my dad Budweiser was a soft drink. It was like handing me a Coke. "Here son." he said. "These are your training wheels. When you grow up you can move on to real alcohol because only pee wees and pussies drink that shit!"
My dad wasn't the most eloquent guy, to tell you the truth. He'd have birthed a cow if he knew I grew up to dig Martinis, pointy shoes, pink shirts and the works of Tony Bennett. The fact I've bedded many luscious, lovely, willing ladies wouldn't have swayed his opinion at all that I was possibly more gay than Liberace swinging into town, swishing a silver sequined cape and riding a pink unicorn. He was a manly man. If there wasn't chewing tobacco in your giant manly mustache, you were a fag.
Sorry to my homo buddies for using that word. I don't normally dig it or anything, it's just something he'd have said. I mean he was my dad but he was sure an asshole sometimes. The funniest thing I ever saw was my dad, about forty three sheets to the wind, trying to proposition a tranny in some dive bar, that he was totally convinced was a woman despite her Adam's Apple and a voice an octave lower than a foghorn. I don't know if he got anywhere. He never mentioned it again.
Anyway, I hope y'all have a wonderful Thanksgiving and don't wind up in jail or something. You non Americans can have a groovy time too.
Lovin' ya and leavin' ya.