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This That And Frog Hair2: Grandpa's Tips for Livin' Through Today

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Grandpa's Tips for Livin' Through Today


The Thanksgiving season is here, and lord knows it is a fiery hell. To celebrate, the whole family has forcibly gathered at YOUR HOUSE; your 40-something son, his cackling Democrat wife, their thirty-thousand greasy, fat little kids, including that gay one that gets the nosebleeds, and a host of others.

The only comfort you have is the promise of all that juicy bird. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can check out for the night in your big recliner while the women are all yackin it the hell up. Hey -- that’s advice worth taking. I'm a Grandpa with decades of Thanksgiving wisdom stored up in my old noggin. Sit back and I’ll learn ya.

Let me begin with my theory on handling relatives: dodge them. Keep your head low and take every cue you can get to leave the room. Quietly say things under your breath all day, like, “You people have no control over your kids,” or, "Blame everything on Grandpa, it's ALL MY FAULT," or if that doesn’t work, try, “I’m gonna go dig off my penis with a turkey bone.” Nobody’s going to follow you around then, you’ve got my word. But when you must be in a group setting, a surefire rule of thumb is to keep the lamp by your chair turned off and sit real still. They might not notice to you.

Now, it’s well known that grandkids will eat all the stuffing. Except for that one little niece that throws up all the time, she thinks it’s "nasty." But I say screw ‘em. Try this: A couple hours before dinner, start slipping them candies. Try Werther’s Original – they eat that shit up. In no time the little animals should be running buck wild, but don’t stop there. Keep amping up their fragile systems with a steady flow of dinner mints and Hershey’s kisses, and keep the snack bowls full so nobody catches on. Just before supper, take these monsters aside and tell them about the pee pee goblin that lives in Grandma’s tummy that only comes out when you tickle her. A profound diversion should occur, and if you time it right you can get yourself some stuffing put away in the fridge.

The time always comes for the champagne to be uncorked. First off, make a mental note of about what time this happens every year, and for God's sake, be ready. Get positioned square in the center of that damn kitchen, and when you see the bottle, grab it before some woman busts in trying to do it herself. See, I missed the cork pop one year, and things turned ugly. My son’s wife did the honors, and I’ll never hear the end of that one from Grandma. “Did you see that? It seemed so effortless for HER,” she says,” it just popped right out like NOTHING. Did you see? Did you see?” She still brings it up casually every year, just to shame me. It’s hard to regain your manhood after a thing like that goes down, so get right in there and work it till you have a stroke. It’s worth it.

I keep track of the lard, but that’s just a preference. Beside cork popping there’s a wide variety of tasks you can take on at Thanksgiving dinner, from warshing the giblets to carving up the bird. I like to can lard. I’ve got stockpiles of lard in the fridge. A bit messy to collect, yes, but it stores easily in the empty cranberry sauce containers. Come Christmas, I'll have a special shed for it out back next to my brand new Patriot™ Wood Chipper.

Grandma says, “Why in the name of heaven are you keeping all that lard?! It stinks up the whole fridge!” Yack, yack, yack. How’s she to know whether or not lard might come in handy? Grandma’s ignorant. It can be the perfect thing in some situations. For instance, you can use it for flavor in cooking. And what if Martians take over the earth and their only weakness is refrigerated lard? Then, when those Martian rape ships start landing, she’ll be sorry. Martian rapists will be over there raping Grandma, and I’ll be over here with my coveted shed-full of lard, bangin’ out delicious meals, rape-free. She didn’t have much to say to THAT, thank you.

Anyhow, I hope my wisdom did you some good. There’s more, but it’s all about getting to sleep in a room full of yacking fruitballs.
Have a good one.

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