- My pregnant wife has not taken her crazy hormonal levels out on me. Yet.
- My pregnant wife and unborn child are in good health.
- The 20 stupidest GI Joe vehicles ever.
- I am living the pants-free dream again and no longer working in Design Purgatory.
- My lower back is no longer destroyed.
- Learning about this before the wife dragged me to see Twilight tonight (yes, the crowd was rife with loser-tastic Emo kids. And for the love of God, Edward, just turn Bella into a vampire).
- Rachel Ray and Ann Coulter with be silenced through the month of December.
Americans all have their own traditions for the Thanksgiving holiday. The wife and I are usually run in the Turkey Trot pre-gluttony, but in lieu of her being with child, we are skipping this year and instead I am skating in an early morning ice hockey game at Denver University. We will then partake in two Thanksgiving meals; one at my parent’s house in the afternoon and one at the wife’s parents house in the evening. Sarah Palin, on the other hand, will have a quiet holiday at home, cooking a turkey for her husband and her children named after English towns. This will occur, of course, after some guy slaughters a turkey during her interview with a local television network. We are all different, yet we are all the same.
The first annual Brozovich Thanksgiving was smoother than eel ejaculate in a Wendy’s Frosty machine (in fact it went so smooth that we are planning on hosting 46 family, friends and a village of Sudanese refugees to dine on a 250 pound peacock for Christmas). Bird was devoured, spirits were imbibed (including one Christmas Tree flavored Jones Soda) and my fur pants and the wife’s matching fur skirt were the talk of the event. Total cook time for the beast: four hours.
Tired of driving to and fro during past Thanksgivings, the wife and I decided to host the annual binge-eating celebration of the harvest’s conclusion at our house. We are expecting over twenty people to show up and obliterate the 28 pound turkey we ordered and leave a trail of intestinal gases in their wake. Equally impressive to the girth of our fowl will be my fur pants. Yes, you read that correctly. I must be careful what I mention to the wife in passing in the future. Jokingly proclaiming that “Thanksgiving would be a lot more comfortable in fur pants” last year has motivated the wife to make me some fur pants. A picture of me adorned in my befurred trousers carving up an immense turkey will be imminent.
The wife and I celebrated our annual Thanksgiving tradition and ran in the Denver Turkey Trot this morning. The weather was beautiful and my legs and lungs felt good. My iPod crapped out on me during mile 3 and after numerous attempts to reboot the device, I am now faced with retiring the old girl for one of those new fangled jimmys. Soon we will be off to gorge on basted fowl and curse Jake Plummer as he fumble fucks around on the gridiron and causes our beloved Broncos lose two in a row to division rivals. Happy Thanksgiving.
My Thanksgiving holiday was pleasant, fattening and free of stabbings. My lady and I ran the Turkey Trot in the morning and then spent the rest of the day being gluttonous hogs. Big comedy was delivered via the grandmothers as we kept vigil over the basted fowl:
Grandma #1: (describing her recent cataract surgery) It was like a psychedelic nightmare.
Grandma #2: I do not like anybody who takes drugs when they do not need them.
My lady and I were laid up with colds for most of the Thanksgiving holiday. Luckily we did not catch the death flu. While we were able to eat Thanksgiving dinner, our heads were so full and stuffed up that tasting the meal was another matter. I spent most of my illness boozed up on NyQuil, sleeping and watching daytime television. NyQuil does some funky shit to your subconscious mind. I had some strange dreams when I was serving my green master. The most bizarre was when I dozed off watching the Peoples Court and dreamed that my lady and I were attending the Westwood College of Aviation with Scott Weiland (I think he was on Maury Povich that day) and Judge Marilyn Milian. Watching my lady, a judge and a heroin addict rebuild an airplane carburetor was a thing a beauty.