Gobble

Thanksgiving is a Very Big Deal around Squathole Manor, at least to Guido, who takes this opportunity every year to push the earth out of orbit.

Guido will cook.  Christ on stilts will she cook.   The holiday brings out the Dago and sets free the hounds of gluttony.

But even before she cooks, she cleans.  She has devices for cleaning surfaces one rarely sees outside commercial buildings; some direct streams of searing steam deep into bathroom walls and tiles, others exhume archaeologically embedded particulates from soft cushions and hard walls.  Then there’s the array of deadly chemicals, astringents, and applicants with their specialized engines of delivery, ostensibly to purify surfaces on which 4-legged creatures pis and puke up hair balls, and husband-critters parade with filthy stained (cloven) hooves.  She climbs ladders.  She crawls under furniture.  She does windows, not the Bill Gates kind.  She peels, polishes, and sometimes re-paints.  She washes the soap.

One Christmas I got her a Zamboni machine.  Why fuck around, right?  Her sister got her this vacuum cleaning device I dubbed “The Monica” – it can suck gasoline out of the car’s gas tank from 60 paces.  It roars like a 747 in need of a ring job.

Trust me, I’m not complaining.  Guido shines this time of year.  When she starts cooking, strangers stop their cars and stagger up to the kitchen window, sniffing like hounds.  The letter carrier starts grinning in anticipation as she begins her rounds.  Neighbors ask her for recipes and advice.  The neighborhood Ginzoid is back in her South Philly element.

Today she calls Delaware Chicken, as usual, to order her two 12-15 pound birds.  “We don’t take orders any more,” they tell her.  “Come by today.”  Guido says she can’t: “I’m working,” she says, “and besides, I don’t have anywhere to put them.”  “Shove them up your husband’s ass,” says Delaware Chickens.  Guido pauses.  “How do you know my husband?” she asks.

I get no respect.  But I get fed.  And laid.  Not just on holidays, either.  Happy Turkey Day, Pilgrims.

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10 Responses to Gobble

  1. Mumblety Peg says:

    Men are such pigs.

  2. Fran G'Panni says:

    Even here in KW I don’t know anybody who could handle 25 pounds of turkey stuffed up his ass. (Not that some wouldn’t try– it might make an interesting act for Mallory Square.) Maybe a wing or a drumstick. Or two.

    Happy Holid-anal!

    • Open Mike says:

      If not a drumstick, how about the turkey baster? Or a corn cob?

      • Diesel Fitter says:

        Why ruin a perfectly tasty turkey? Maybe she could drive that Zamboni machine you gave her up your ass. Which reminds me of the joke that ends, “Flashlight, hell! Help me find my truck keys and we’ll DRIVE out of here!”

  3. Joe Balls says:

    My apartment hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned since I fired the service that used to come in weekly to do it. That was in the late ’90s. I think there’s still parts of re-heated Y2K Thanksgiving leftovers stuck to the microwave walls. I guess that’s what that is, anyway.

  4. Kent Standit says:

    LOL!! Hey — why do you think they call it “stuffing”?

  5. Squathole says:

    Gosh what a roll we’re on today. So holiday-spirited, too.

    For the record, Guido knows she can put whatever she wants up my ass — so long as she ties me up first.

  6. Camiel Toe says:

    Really Squats? Can I watch? I’ll bring my own popcorn to share with Guido to eat or stuff (or both). 🙂

  7. Key West Liam says:

    Count me in, too. Sure hope there’s candied yams. Or better yet — hot sauce!! Eyoweeee!

  8. Ruh Roh says:

    Nothing says “Pilgrims” and “Puritans” like anal sex, y’know? Has there ever been a more uptight tight-assed bunch than that crew of bible harpies? They made the Quakers look like libertines.

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