Thanksgiving was originally steeped in deep religious conviction-- a time to give thanks to God for a bountiful harvest and for safety in a strange, new land.
While the precise historical origin of the holiday is often disputed, most commonly, Americans believe that the first Thanksgiving happened in 1621 at Plymouth Plantation in Massachusetts.
After Section 8 housing was approved, English neighborhoods became over-run with bad apples and an inordinate amount of rent to own stores and payday loan clerks.
Upon belief that the west side was safer, the Pilgrims packed up their belongings and, after shopping around for the best deal, they hired a Mayflower truck rental and told the King of England to eat it.
Since U.S. border control policy has been ineffective since 1621, the Pilgrims were able to slip past the giant fence.
The Indians** witnessed the landing of these strange new immigrants and immediately called to complain on several Fox News programs. As an historical anecdote, this event immediately prompted the opening of the very first U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service office...where some of the original Pilgrims are STILL waiting in line for their citizenship papers.
** Indian Clarification Note: The Indians who later had their land stolen…Not the Indians who are abundantly proficient in advanced mathematics and refuse to eat hamburgers.
After taking an ESL and citizenship exam, the Pilgrims unloaded every species of animal, two by two, and burned their Mayflower rental...figuring that they would NEVER get the deposit back due to the unbearable stench from a metric ton of feces.
They then decided to throw a gigantic party…right after burning a couple dozen witches at the stake and constructing the Liberty Bell.
The celebration between the Indians and the Pilgrims is well known. The two groups gathered together to make funny hats and outfits, they traced their hands with art pencils, fashioning cute little turkeys on a piece of construction paper to be affixed to the refrigerator and then, after an apple juice and playtime, it was nap time.
When they woke from their nap, the Pilgrims and Indians joined hands and partook in a cornucopia** followed by a level of discomfort and awkwardness as the last set of tacky in-laws lingered at the end of the party. No one knew of a polite method which would encourage Fred and Stella to go home.
** Historical Note: Contrary to popular belief, there was NO cranberry sauce at the first Thanksgiving, as no one on the Mayflower thought to bring a can opener. Fred DID, however, get real drunk and stumbled into a Teepee and knocked it over.
Pilgrims came to America during the seventeenth century for the same reasons immigrants come to America today - to do odd jobs, harvest fruits and vegetables for $1.80 per hour, to hang drywall, drive taxi cabs, operate convenience stores and to open mobile taquito stands.
I would love to have attended the first Thanksgiving. Primarily because I have a slight fetish for women in a black and white two piece skirt/ bodice and a bonnet. This speaks largely as to why I don‘t get many dates. **
** My friend Ed suggests that I might consider moving to the Amish country
Thanksgiving is a time for giving thanks, a time for reflection and a celebration of life, family and friends. It's also a time when it's perfectly okay for a man to watch a parade without bringing speculation as to his sexuality.
I use it as a period to organize my computer and desk file folders.
So that I might effect order and tidiness to my cluttered life for the coming year, I spend Thanksgiving week discarding topic ideas and suggestions, random thoughts (scribbled on bar napkins) and various lines or paragraphs which didn’t quite make the publishing cut over the previous 11 months.
Believe it or not, unlike many people who post things to their social network page, I DO have a filter as to what I will post to the Internet and in my books. (Unless I'm drunk) This is largely due to the fact that my editor is a gigantic buzz-kill and is sexually repressed.
Facebook Example: OMG!!! I'm having the BEST bananas foster cheesecake right now!!! Yummm!
I feel strongly that I speak for the silent majority when I say...Uh, who cares??
One will gain larger, wide audience interest if he or she posts a picture eating bananas foster cheesecake...naked.
To the untrained eye, my writing notes are completely random and, perhaps, sometimes bizarre. I know what they mean but someone else, say an FBI agent, might take them as a warning sign from a person who, somewhere down the line at a crime scene, might be described by neighbors as "A nice and quiet guy who always stayed to himself."
Here are a few examples from the “Working Story Idea” folders that shall now become trash. I like to call them leftovers:
“Suckle her teats”
I found this lovely little gem scribbled on a post-it note and vaguely recall that it was a line which was suggested by a writer friend. I was to somehow supposed to work it into a story.
I’m not sure what we could have remotelybeen talking about that evening but I suspect alcohol was involved.
I'm fairly disturbed that I even saved that little note, but I DID manage to work it into a story just now so I shall chalk it up to a challenge accepted and accomplished!
In looking at some story lines and suggestions submitted by friends, I have asked Santa to bring me some restraining orders and a new set of friends for Christmas this year.
Speaking of Christmas, here’s a nice little idea that I somehow thought to be appropriate:
Design a Christmas Card with a photo of my bare bottom with a caption which reads…
“Merry ChristmAss”
I’m pretty sure that If my mother and father were alive they would attest to the fact that I usually ended up on Santa’s “Naughty” list.
Earlier this year, I was asked to write a stage skit for a Christmas production. The producer had been reading some of my work and somehow still thought it to be wise for me to be involved in the project. I stumbled across a file in my computer titled ‘Twas the Night Before XXX-Mas.
In it, I wrote a beautiful nativity scene, complete with the baby Jesus. It was a placid scene from a silent, magical Christmas eve of centuries…punctuated by three Wise Men who constantly farted.
My contribution will not be making it to the final stage version and I was unceremoniously dismissed from the production. (insert flatulence here)
After going through a tough breakup, several friends encouraged me to write a serious piece. A piece which might help to clear my mind and lay some poignant feelings on display (in the Manger) for all to read. Perhaps something loving, encouraging and deep? That's for the reader to decide.
I began writing the story but I suppose I became distracted and never made it past writing the title:
I Hate You And Hope You Are Ravaged By A Pack Of Mountain Lions
(A helpful guide for dating women named Lisa)
This is one of several fine examples as to why a children’s book publisher from New York will never entertain the idea of accepting drafts from my children’s short story series. I suppose I'm gonna have to develop a "pen name" for those stories.
I finished writing a novel early this year. It’s a touching story of love, self-destruction and inner strength as our lead character sinks to the lowest possible point in life and courageously climbs from the depths of pain and strife.
In short, it’s a redemption story about a character (Chris) who, after long mistreating himself and neglecting loved ones, family and friends, finally finds his place in a difficult world.
It’s common to submit a “working” title to a publisher, which leads me to the next note that I found as I was cleaning out the folders:
“Chris Is A Big Fat D**k Head”
(a love story by Jim Patrick)
My editor (Mike) never allows me to communicate with publishers anymore.
I keep a notepad by my bed, right next to the Shake WeightÒ and the video camera, in case I wake up with a writing "prompt." Sometimes I may scribble down a dream to include in upcoming stories. Such as the following:
I had a dream that I was hanging out with the big E (Elvis) last night. The King and I made a peanut butter & banana, bacon, Lortab, salami, fried egg, Oxycontin, prime rib, BBQ, vodka sandwich. And then he sang one of his beautiful renditions of a southern gospel standard while he brushed my hair and constantly referred to me as pretty Lisa Marie.
I probably ate some spicy food that night. Spicy food usually gives me weird dreams...especially when I wash it down with four shots of tequila.
Which reminds me, as I was filing this story online, a friend of mine snared me into the following instant message conversation:
Carrie:
You're welcome to come over for Thanksgiving dinner if ya want
Me:
Will you be serving Anjara and Sambusas?
Carrie:
huh??? What's that??
Me:
They're traditional dishes of Somalia. Sambusas is my favorite...it's deep-fried triangular-shaped dumplings usually filled with meat or vegetables.
Carrie:
What do those things have to do with Thanksgiving dinner???
Me:
Somalia has been steeped in a vicious civil war between clans since 1991 and has no central government. President Regan initiated methods to stabilize the nation in the 1980's, followed by his successors, to no avail. It is a strict, nomadic, vigilante environment which flatly prohibits the consumption of alcohol. Haven't you ever seen Blackhawk Down?? Jeez.
Carrie:
Again, WHY would that be on a Thanksgiving dinner menu?
Me:
Because I'm thankful I don't live there. But, I love deep-fried triangular meat and veggie filled thingies. Minus the murderous war-lords of course.
Carrie:
You are NOT normal. We're doing turkey breasts...if that's OK with you.
Me:
I LOVE it! I'll be there. I love succulent, plump, melt in your mouth breasts.
Carrie:
We're still talking about turkey, right?
Me:
Perhaps.
As I sift through countless folders of "not ready for public consumption" over the coming week, I shall take time here and there to be thankful for many things. Some of which include:
I don't have separation anxiety where pumpkins are concerned. Seriously, it's time to remove the pumpkins from your office lobby or front porch and say goodbye to your sagging little orange friends.
I'm thankful that I'm not married to my friend Todd's wife, Melissa. I'm also thankful that Todd hasn't killed himself yet.
I'm thankful for Irish Whiskey (a contributing factor as to why Todd hasn't killed himself yet)
I'm also thankful for the people who take time from their busy schedules to read this stuff. I'm equally thankful for an abundance of genuinely wonderful friends in my life. They are people of impeccable character who never miss an opportunity to push and encourage me in all that I do while holding me to a higher standard.
I'm thankful for the men and women who serve a higher cause, at home and abroad, to protect and uphold ideals upon which our country was built.
Even though the Pilgrims were sexually repressed we were somehow able to move past those dark times and build a country where we celebrate independence with a GIANT mattress sale and zero down automotive deals.
While my immediate family is long gone, I'm thankful that they were a part of my life. (With the exception of Uncle Leonard.)
Finally, I'm thankful that a compromise has been reached between me and my friend Carrie...she's going to make the deep-fried Sambusas, stuffed with turkey!! Yummmm!!
