OPERATION CHESTNUTS:

I had it, for about five good minutes I had it. You were there, you saw, about two weeks ago I wrote about it. I had the Holiday Spirit for a brief moment and then just as suddenly as it came, it went. And I liked it, God help me, I liked it! Ronny wants more of that, Ronny needs it, needs more of the spirit to get well. Gotta get me more of that shit, man! I'm hurtin', hurtin' real bad. Gimme some more, man, come on, give it to me! I'll suck your…

Hold on now, not that desperate for it… yet.

I think I know how to get it back without resorting to degrading sexual practices (unlike back in high school). I've got a plan to recapture it. I'll go to the same resource I used to learn how to drive a car, how to roast a turkey, how to play the piano and how to set up a meth lab: Television! Television helped me out with all that stuff. Granted, I can't even play Chopsticks and the meth lab blew up in my face. But I can roast the hell out of a turkey and drive that bitch wherever it needs to go, so television is 2 for 4 as a life coach. But if this plan succeeds, then the idiot box finishes 2011 with a winning percentage in the Savage household. 

Here's the deal, starting on the evening of December 1st, I am going to attempt to watch one Hallmark Channel or ABC Family Channel holiday movie a night all the way through to Christmas Eve. And believe me, just typing those words has made me breakout in a cold sweat. 24 movies at 2 hours each, 48 hours in total. Essentially two full days of B and C list actors finding the meaning and magic of Christmas in various ways. In most cases that involves taking a stranger or a stray animal into their homes, teaching us all that Christmas is about endangering your family by risking home invasion or rabies. 

Each night I'll try to throw out a few thoughts and words about the evening's selection and chronicle my descent into madness. By Christmas Day I'll either be so full of the Holiday Spirit I'll be bleeding egg nog from my eyes, or so full of rage and self-hatred that I'll become a danger to myself and those closest to me. Either way I'll be a changed man… and possibly dead by my own hands. 

Join me on the journey, won't you?

COUNTING MY BLESSINGS

Well it's that time of year again. Been marking my calendar and it seems there's no getting around it, time for my annual prostate exam. But that's not why I'm so excited. Or is it? (AWKWARD!) No, I'm excited because it's Thanksgiving! By far the bestest holiday ever created by whomever the hell creates holidays. Anyone know who that might be by the way? I used to think it was God, but then the advent of Black Friday just killed that notion. What's that you say? Black Friday's not a real holiday? My wife and her crazy-ass bargain-hunting girlfriends might say otherwise. And they have… to my face… with hurtful words. (So mean.)

But a mere twenty-four hours before that unholy day of wanton avarice there's Thanksgiving, and Thanksgiving is awesome! Better than Halloween with its government sanctioned panhandling, better than Christmas with its faux good will, better than Arbor Day with its… um… that's about trees, right? Whatever. Thanksgiving trumps them all! A wonderful day for food, a day for football, a day for… something else I'm having trouble remembering. Think it starts with an F as well… right there on the tip of my tongue. Oh well, probably not important anyway. 

One tradition that goes along with the whole deal is to give thanks for the stuff that you're grateful for, the people and things in your life that make you happy. I really shouldn't have to tell you all this, it's right there in the damn holiday's name for the love of Pete. God, it's like I gotta hold your hand or something. And since you're here and I've got your attention, I figured I'd share with you a few of the things I'm appreciating this year.

At the top of my list is my family, because without them I'm pretty sure there'd be a shitload of regrets in my past and more than a few violent acts in my future. Maybe a missing hooker here and there along the way. Wait, family… YES! That's the thing that goes along with food and football! Whew, glad I figured that out. Seriously though, they keep me grounded, they keep me centered, mostly they keep me out of prison. 

Family trip to the big city. That's me on the far right.
God, look how thin I was back then.

I'm thankful for my friends. They put up with me when they don't really have to and that means a lot to me. I'd say more but after just talking about my family I'm already kinda choked up. Keep going the way I'm going, talking about the best friends a guy could have… I might get a little more… (choke) and then there'd be tears and… (sniff) and… excuse me a minute.

On the couch left to right that's Hammerhead Johnny,
The Dish Man and Titties P. McButter.
Yeah, my friends are imaginary, so what?

Making the world safe
for my Inner Child.

Okay, I'm back. Let's move onto things a little lighter in tone, try to keep it from getting anymore weepy up in here than it already is. Comic books are a pretty safe subject, so I'll go there. I'm thankful for DC Comics and their line-up of 52 new and revamped titles. (Or The New 52 as they've dubbed it.) They've made comics fun again and made Wednesdays (new comic book day) something to look forward to once more. I've missed that. Like back in the day when I was a kid and my dad would take me to the newsstand to buy me an issue of Superman or Batman. He'd get himself a soda and he'd buy me one too and… and… (sniff) What the hell's wrong with me? Excuse me another minute.

Of course I'm thankful for Tom F@%king Brady, but that one goes without saying. Or at least it would if the bylaws of the Church of TFB didn't require me to actually say it publicly at least once every fortnight. Regular readers might be sick of hearing me talk about him, (YES WE ARE, RON!) but I've got obligations to keep… and he's always watching. On the bright side, only one more blood sacrifice before the next full moon and my membership dues will be paid up through the year. So I've got that going for me.

Boobs! Thankful for boobs! Not ashamed to admit it and half the sites on the Internet tell me that I'm not alone. 

I'm thankful to the cast of GLEE for using  their talents to make the world a better place through music and the joy of song. Nah I'm just kidding with this one, that show sucks, fuck those assjacks! Notice I actually dropped the F-bomb there rather than my customary use of symbols. That's how much I hate them. (Forgive me, Mother.)

Jazz hands. That just can't be good for America.

Lastly I'm thankful for YOU, the reader. Whether you're one of the people I'm lucky enough to have as a regular visitor, or a first timer recommended here via link from a friend, or even if a search engine led you here by mistake during your quest for porn (that's why I put boobs on the page). As much as I love to write, it means even more to me that someone would care enough to read it. And for that I'm truly… truly… (sniff) Aw come on, not again! 

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYBODY!

It's Happening Again

Just like last year, happened around this same time. I forget the event that sparked it in 2010, but last night it was the girl at Big Y, cute little cherub, working part-time after school at the aisle 5 check-out. (Okay, that may or may not have been her situation. She could've been a youngish looking 41 year-old mother of three pulling a double shift to make ends meet for all I know.) Whatever her story was, she rang up my potatoes, my bread and my Swedish Fish… and no, I didn't actually need the damn Swedish Fish, it had just been that kind of day. And thank you for mentioning that my pants are riding kinda tight these days! Wait… that wasn't you, was it?

Anyway, the high school cougar hands me my receipt and a coupon for $5.00 off a frozen turkey, smiles sweetly and says "Happy Holidays from Big Y". And just like that, I'm in the holiday spirit. 

As I said before, same thing happened last year too. And yes, I realize that lots of people get into the holiday spirit this time of year… as opposed to getting in the spirit in the middle of August I guess. But it's pretty damned unusual for me, I'm not normally one for that type of crap. Traditionally I'm the one flinging poop at those with Christmas in their hearts. Metaphorical poop of course. Well, there was that one time… but you know, you and five of your friends knock on a stranger's door to sing at them all dressed up in gay apparel, you're just asking for it. 

Because of misunderstandings like that I'm usually being pegged as Grinch or Scrooge or asshole or "The guy who never picks up a check". Those last two are pretty much year-round deals but it's not like they get a rest during the joyous season so I threw them onto the pile. 

Don't even try to act like you
wouldn't see this movie!

The ironic thing about it is that it was a $5.00 coupon for a frozen bird corpse that started melting me inside, got me feeling stuff that you normal folks are in touch with. When it happened last year I was actually kind of worried. Frantically asking questions like "What the hell's going on? What do these feelings mean? Why is this happening to me? Am I going to die?" Turned out that I was freaking out (and even peeing myself a little) over nothing. It was a mild case, passed as quickly as it came. That's the reason I'm not too concerned this time around. I'll smile at a few people, hum one or two merry tunes, maybe even put up a decoration or something like that and before you know it…

Okay wait… it's gone. I'm good. But still, I kinda liked the feeling for a moment there. Might wanna get myself some more of that. Question is: how? How do I recapture that warm and gooey feeling? And I think I've got a plan. A plan so crazy that it might actually work… or it might kill me. Stay tuned.

EATING CROW

Bitter-sweet post for you today. Couple of weeks ago I mentioned a bet that took place between me and a friend of mine, let's call her Jenette… because that's her name. Quick recap, she's a Cowboy fan, I'm a Patriots fan, they played, we bet, I won pancakes. On top of talking about the bet and the fact that there would be video evidence of same, I also did a little… more than a little actually… okay, a whole lot of crowing about Tom Brady and the Patriots being the best football team on the planet.

Well, as those of you who follow football know by now, the Pats have lost the last two games in a row, most recently to the hated New York Giants. Same team that beat us in the '07 Super Bowl and wrecked our hopes of a perfect season. But that was four years ago, Patriots' Nation has had time to heal and move on and…
OH WHEN DEAR SWEET BABY JESUS? WHEN'S GONNA BE TIME FOR THE HURTING TO STOP?

Well, I said we'd had time to heal and move on, didn't say we'd actually done any of that crap. So we aren't looking so mighty anymore. Vultures are circling because these days the Pats are looking as vulnerable as a 10 year-old boy on the Penn State campus. (What… too soon?)

But I'm not here to talk about that… sorry I even brought it up. The bet was honored, the pancakes were made and devoured. And I have the video to prove it. And yes, I know that I said it was going to be a Food Network kind of deal, complete with Jenette giving all kinds of instructions and gorgeously styled money shots of the finished product. But that shit is hard! Those Food Network people are professionals. I'm lucky this thing was even in focus and no one died like King Henry I. (What… too late?)

Still, we had a good time doing it and hope you dig it. So with no further fanfare, here it is: The Bet.

No animals were injured during the production of this video. Neglected, misplaced and in one instance completely frozen and later thawed, but not injured.

STORY TIME!

Hey there, been a while, I know, crazy week, lots going on. Plus, you know that I see other people on other blogs, right? Never said we were exclusive or anything like that, you're just gonna have to take me when you can get me, baby. But I'm here now so let's make the best of our time together and not waste it fighting about things like commitment or infidelity or you perhaps getting yourself tested, okay? 

And don't let the title fool you, Daddy's not going to tell you a story, not today. Dropping by this time around to give you a few tips on how you, yourself can tell a good story. That's not to say that I'm so arrogant as to think I'm a gifted enough writer to be able to pass the wisdom of the craft on to the masses. (At least not yet. Gimme another month.) No, I'm not talking about writing a story, I'm talking about actually telling a story, the verbal kind, the everyday kinds of stories people tell to other people when they're next to them on the train commuting to work. Or in the elevator on the way up to the office, or at someone's desk bugging them when there's work to be done and deadlines to be met, or at the water cooler when a guy just wants to get a damn drink, or the line at the cafeteria when a son of a bitch just wants to get his grub on, or even in the f##king bathroom when the poor bastard's just trying find a peaceful moment to crap fire because Taco Friday in the cafeteria is always a bad idea! 

Maybe you could tell from the amount of venom in that long-ass run-on sentence, but I've been that guy, the verbal victim in all of those scenarios. Except for the train thing, not allowed on trains, not anymore. Didn't grope that woman though, no matter what she said. Train stopped short, I fell forward, hands gotta land somewhere. Anyway, we've all been there, stuck in those moments when some chowderhead is going on and on and on about crap you don't give a… well that you don't give a crap about. Kinda like right now, but at least here I'll occasionally hit you with a graphic to keep you interested, like…

Now there are lots of different reasons why a well intentioned tale can turn into an energy-sapping ordeal from which there seems to be no escape. But in my experience at being a casualty of such soul violation, I've found that it usually comes down to four simple mistakes on the part of the storyteller. I present them here in no particular order.

1) YOU HAD TO BE THERE:

We've all been on the receiving end of this one. Eight minutes of your life spent listening to the aforementioned Chowderhead's meandering set-up and when he finally reaches the punch line, the climax, the big reveal it turns out to be something along the lines of: "So Dave walks in (snicker) and he's got mustard on his shoe and I'm like, (chortle) Dave, mustard, really? (Bwah ha ha ha!)" Twenty seconds later, Chowderhead notices he's the only one laughing and then offers up your failure to have been present at Dave's mustard party as the reason you didn't find it funny. And for the record, you can't legally beat a man to death for that, I've checked.

2) MISSING AUDIO/VISUAL ELEMENTS:

Almost of the same slant as #1, but in this instance Chowderhead's tale relies on Dave's Australian accent to make it funny, or maybe the look on Dave's face was the key to unlocking your laugh box. So not only weren't you there for the real deal, but now you've got to watch and listen in silent horror as Chowderhead tries to recreate the magic by butchering an Aussie accent into something that sounds like an old Russian woman with the barrel of a gun in her mouth. On top of that he's making facial expressions that remind you of the time your cousin choked on a marble and died right in front of you when you were seven years-old. (BTW, if you actually did ever lose a loved one that way, I am of course sorry for your tragic loss. That being said, that is some real effed up shit right there.)

3) LESS THAN TOTAL RECALL:

Like streaming porn slowed to a crawl due to low bandwidth and increased traffic, the legend of Dave's mustard shoe comes at you in drips and drabs thanks to the simple fact that Chowderhead is having trouble remembering the sequence of events. So instead of at least having the decency to get his notes in order before coming to you to waste your time, he hits you with five and a half minutes of "Um… wait, so then… wait… hold on a sec… um… oh yeah… no…" as he buffers his way through to a less than satisfying ending that will ultimately prove to be your fault. (Because you had to be there, remember?)

4) SHIT YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR IN THE FIRST PLACE:

You don't like Dave. In fact, you f##king hate Dave! Dave is the jerkoff bastard from down under who bent your girlfriend over a stack of coats last year at your boss' Halloween party… all suave and what-not with his accent and his awesome Captain Jack Sparrow costume and shit. That still-talked about event is what your ex-girlfriend/Dave's new fiancé lovingly refers to as their "Meet Cute". Safe to say that any story about Dave that doesn't end with his being ass-raped by a gang of rabid Clydesdales while your duct-taped ex-bitch hangs a from a meat hook and waits her turn, is not a story you care to hear. Chowderhead knows this, Chowderhead acknowledges this by prefacing his yarn with something like "Look, I know you and Dave don't really get along all that well, but…" Then without missing a beat, completely ignoring the flush of color in your cheeks and the throbbing vein that's made its way to the surface of your temple, he goes on to tell you the epic of the mustard shoe anyway. Sadly, just as I said at the end of #1, you can't legally beat Chowderhead to death for this. But Chowderhead sounds like a real asshole so I'm sure that should you find yourself bludgeoning him past the point of expiration with his own arm, you're probably not gonna have to look too far to find someone to help you hide the body, clean up the mess or even hook you up you with a credible alibi.

Well then, I hope this helps. If even one person heeds my advice and avoids being a Chowderhead in the future, then my time on this Earth has been worthwhile. Speaking of which, if anyone can provide me with an alibi for my whereabouts yesterday at around 2:30 pm, it would be most appreciated.