If your Thanksgiving is anything like mine -- and it isn't -- you hope that Aunt Bertha's screaming match with Uncle Perv distracts her from giving her "signature sloppy wet kisses," and that maybe, just maybe, Cindi will burn the Turfrogken so far beyond recognition that not only will the coroner's office need to use dental records to identify it, but even Cindi won't run sobbing to her room if you suggest ordering a pizza.
How is it that teenage girls can run out of the room sobbing every 20 minutes? It must be exhausting -- I know it is for the rest of us. How is it that a woman who stands 5'4", 213 pounds, can walk into a room and ask, "Does this dress make me look fat?" No, Aunt Bertha, it's not the dress. In fact the dress doesn't have a tag; that white slip of fabric is a note from the dress itself that simply reads, "Help me. Please." And how can a middle-aged man not realize that his aftershave would still be offensive even if he cut the amount in half?
Granted, Perv's latest selection will still be slightly more appealing than the eau de turfrogken that is wafting from the kitchen, but that's kind of like saying, "Well at least Billy Butler isn't as slow as Nate Freiman." Or the other way around. Who knows until one of them actually reaches a base?
I think what I'm trying to say is that I'm hoping to be soused by 3:00pm because the gang is arriving at 4:00pm and leaving sometime between 10:30pm and January. So may your Thanksgiving be better than mine, which it will be unless a piano falls from the sky before noon and crushes Aunt Bertha. It's ok, she's an organ donor.