As we approach our national day of giving thanks, we have some real doozies to celebrate this year. It's unclear exactly how we'll provide ourselves ample black-slapping gratitude on our good work -- although I expect a couple pieces of pie fit into the equation somehow.
And so, a grateful nation groans and pushes itself back from the table, creaking every joint in its chair, its fingers crossed, in support of the hope that this rickety seat won't pop all its seams, right this instant, and dump us sprawling onto the floor.
Let us all in the Glassy-Eyed Tryptophan Brigade fondly seek out the Couch of Contentment in great sighs of relief, giving thanks for landing safely somewhere soft and stuffed, feeling much the same, too.
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You might might thank me for this one: Don't go within 1,000 yards of a grocery store until Friday. I went out for a few things this morning, and consider myself lucky to have made it out of there alive and intact.
Hey, it might not be great, dining on Gas Station Style Spicy Nachos ala Convenience Store on Thursday, but it'll be enough to help you hold out until Friday.
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I'm almost always unsure how to reconcile Thanksgiving Day -- the often-told grade school fairy tales that we all seem to be lugging around -- with the brutality of treatment native peoples received at the hands of migrant Europeans.
You might remember, the attitude was that people found here were savages, even though Native Americans had a successful, thriving culture long before Europeans showed up and said, "Nice place. We'll take it."
