Children of the Speckled Corn
I hope everyone's having a pleasant day, untroubled by work, racist relatives, or an uncomfortable proximity to turban squash. Mary is making her traditional Thanksgiving feast -- turkey, mashed potatoes, and Brussels sprouts, I believe -- while I am practicing the custom of my ancestors, staying-the-hell-out-of-the-kitchen, because it's roughly the depth and breadth of a coffin, and my presence tends to test the limits of patience and the bonds of matrimony, while increasing the likelihood that the kitchen itself will transition from a tiny food preparation area to an actual casket, in that it will suddenly contain a dead body.
I mean besides the turkey. (And spare me the turkey jokes -- I'm looking at you, Actor212 -- because you really need to be a Seventies icon of Earl Holliman, or Ben Murphy quality to pull off that kind of insult with any degree of panache.)
So I'll be in the recliner, with my coffee, my lower back pain medication, and a lapful of cats, watching the Mystery Science Theater 3000 Turkey Day Marathon on ShoutFactoryTV, or YouTube, or whatever damn streaming service I can coax into compliance.
What are you guys up to this year? Please let me know in the comments, because while I don't live well, I do live vicariously.
Mmm, boy! That's good flesh!