Here's something you might be interested in.
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Thanksgiving Edition
Thanksgiving is thought of as family time. But, we all know Thanksgiving is more than family, bigger than family. Thanksgiving means the NFL is coming at you with three rock-’em sock-’em football games running from 9:30 in the morning until 9:30 at night. That’s 12 hours of nonstop professional football goodness, people. So, go ahead, lay hands on beer, find the peanuts, put your feet up, get down with Detroit, Dallas, and Cincinnati as they zombie-walk though another pointless game.
That should work for 80 percent of you.
But what about the rest? What about those people without families or loved ones? Those too sick to get out of bed. Those in prison. Those in mental institutions. Those in rehab. Those working small-appliance help lines. Those who have been abducted and probed. Repeatedly. Those who live underneath airport runways. Those who walk the mean streets of Hillcrest whistling “Beer for My Horses.” People who speak French. What about them?
This column is for you, aforementioned personhoods. Follows is practical help, but listen up: you must do your part. Force yourself to pick one suggestion and carry it all the way through. You’ll feel better. Count on it.
I’ll begin with the perennial favorite. Just get drunk. Hie thee to the snakiest dive in San Diego and stake out a seat at the bar. Engage in drunk talk with fellow pathetics. You might as well wallow in it.
Or, take a long walk on the beach, pretend you’re holding someone’s hand. Engage in witty banter.
Or, call eHarmony and listen to a recorded message. Then call Match.com, followed by SugarDaddy.com, Millionaire Match, and Plenty of Fish. Which recorded message was best? Which ones made you feel dirty? Compare and contrast. Write a love letter to your favorite dating service. Start a scrapbook.
Too much work? No worries. Tune to TV Land. The Brady Bunch marathon begins at 9:00 a.m.
Walk into the Hotel Del wearing tie-dye pants, shirt, and unisex leather sandals. Sit in the lobby, kick off your footwear, munch on Volcano burritos out of a Taco Bell bag. Complain about room service.
Take an inventory of your plates, silverware, china, napkins, cutlery. Make a seating chart. Put clean towels in the bathroom. Carefully write down a Thanksgiving menu for two. Wait by the door.
Go bowling alone.
Buy an inflatable turkey ($11.95 at McPhee.com), drive back to the Hotel Del, promenade the lobby with Mr. Inflatable Turkey hung around your neck. Pop your eyes and snarl, “YUMMY. YUMMY. YUMMY.”
Open your home to the first lawyer you meet.
Stop by Blockbuster and rent The Best Thanksgiving Ever. Watch it twice. Break out a Hungry Man XXL Roasted Carved Turkey frozen dinner. Be secure knowing you have two more. Call out for donuts. Cheers!
Get on the internet and order $1000 worth of barbells. Have them sent overnight.
Call your first-grade teacher. Speak in a low, muffled voice. Explain how you’ve always loved her.
Drive to Yuma. Telephone home. Leave yourself a long Thanksgiving message. Be maudlin, say what’s really on your mind — it’s a holiday.
Drive back to the Hotel Del. Walk into the lobby sobbing and gnashing your teeth. Approach tourists, put your hands on their shoulders, squeeze, then whine, “Will you be my friend?”
Go to the corner of Tenth and Broadway. Stand there. Imagine yourself as a parking meter. Where would a parking meter go on Thanksgiving? Follow your instincts.
Dress up as a fly fisherman. Hip waders, stripping apron and basket, beat-up fedora hat, red checkered shirt, ten-foot fishing rod, the whole deal. Make your way to the Tijuana River basin. Catch and release.
Return to the Hotel Del. Walk into the lobby. Arrange yourself on the lid of a big, black piano, cross your legs and shout, “YOU PEOPLE BELONG IN PRISON!”
Let me know how it turns out.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Thanksgiving Edition
Thanksgiving Edition
Thanksgiving is thought of as family time. But, we all know Thanksgiving is more than family, bigger than family. Thanksgiving means the NFL is coming at you with three rock-’em sock-’em football games running from 9:30 in the morning until 9:30 at night. That’s 12 hours of nonstop professional football goodness, people. So, go ahead, lay hands on beer, find the peanuts, put your feet up, get down with Detroit, Dallas, and Cincinnati as they zombie-walk though another pointless game.
That should work for 80 percent of you.
But what about the rest? What about those people without families or loved ones? Those too sick to get out of bed. Those in prison. Those in mental institutions. Those in rehab. Those working small-appliance help lines. Those who have been abducted and probed. Repeatedly. Those who live underneath airport runways. Those who walk the mean streets of Hillcrest whistling “Beer for My Horses.” People who speak French. What about them?
This column is for you, aforementioned personhoods. Follows is practical help, but listen up: you must do your part. Force yourself to pick one suggestion and carry it all the way through. You’ll feel better. Count on it.
I’ll begin with the perennial favorite. Just get drunk. Hie thee to the snakiest dive in San Diego and stake out a seat at the bar. Engage in drunk talk with fellow pathetics. You might as well wallow in it.
Or, take a long walk on the beach, pretend you’re holding someone’s hand. Engage in witty banter.
Or, call eHarmony and listen to a recorded message. Then call Match.com, followed by SugarDaddy.com, Millionaire Match, and Plenty of Fish. Which recorded message was best? Which ones made you feel dirty? Compare and contrast. Write a love letter to your favorite dating service. Start a scrapbook.
Too much work? No worries. Tune to TV Land. The Brady Bunch marathon begins at 9:00 a.m.
Walk into the Hotel Del wearing tie-dye pants, shirt, and unisex leather sandals. Sit in the lobby, kick off your footwear, munch on Volcano burritos out of a Taco Bell bag. Complain about room service.
Take an inventory of your plates, silverware, china, napkins, cutlery. Make a seating chart. Put clean towels in the bathroom. Carefully write down a Thanksgiving menu for two. Wait by the door.
Go bowling alone.
Buy an inflatable turkey ($11.95 at McPhee.com), drive back to the Hotel Del, promenade the lobby with Mr. Inflatable Turkey hung around your neck. Pop your eyes and snarl, “YUMMY. YUMMY. YUMMY.”
Open your home to the first lawyer you meet.
Stop by Blockbuster and rent The Best Thanksgiving Ever. Watch it twice. Break out a Hungry Man XXL Roasted Carved Turkey frozen dinner. Be secure knowing you have two more. Call out for donuts. Cheers!
Get on the internet and order $1000 worth of barbells. Have them sent overnight.
Call your first-grade teacher. Speak in a low, muffled voice. Explain how you’ve always loved her.
Drive to Yuma. Telephone home. Leave yourself a long Thanksgiving message. Be maudlin, say what’s really on your mind — it’s a holiday.
Drive back to the Hotel Del. Walk into the lobby sobbing and gnashing your teeth. Approach tourists, put your hands on their shoulders, squeeze, then whine, “Will you be my friend?”
Go to the corner of Tenth and Broadway. Stand there. Imagine yourself as a parking meter. Where would a parking meter go on Thanksgiving? Follow your instincts.
Dress up as a fly fisherman. Hip waders, stripping apron and basket, beat-up fedora hat, red checkered shirt, ten-foot fishing rod, the whole deal. Make your way to the Tijuana River basin. Catch and release.
Return to the Hotel Del. Walk into the lobby. Arrange yourself on the lid of a big, black piano, cross your legs and shout, “YOU PEOPLE BELONG IN PRISON!”
Let me know how it turns out.