Our dirt bikes bring all the boys to the yard. Damn right, they're better than yours.

Monday, October 10, 2005


Yes, so, then, it was a fine yesterday night when I walked over to my friend's house for our hippie-laden community turkeyday feast. One person made turkey, one made chicken-simulating chicken McNuggets (something to do with tofurkey or tofu or bean curds or hugs) and I made about 45 cents worth of potatoes and carrots, with a delicious onion soup base. Delicious.

SO, for most of the day, let's just say, I was in a delicate state. Issues of love, life, and feelings had come to the forefront, excaspberabated (HUH?) by a severe case of fatigue brought on by a somewhat absurd cocktail party the night before. It was a brilliantly planned and executed party; I came dressed as a 1970s newspaper editor, with ugly tie, vest, and dress pants, and inappropriately-matched shoes. They were the wrong colour, I guess. But being not gay, I failed to notice. But, like many parties in my life (currently, I think the number is 99.994 per cent), I left frustrated at my ability to be funny without achieving willing participants for sexual intercourse. This information, also, dwells outside the realm of information relevant to why I was crying at supper.

Mostly, yesterday, and for the second time since moving here, I had an overwhelming sense of belonging and community. I also cried because I didn't want to go to work, but that was because I was sad that I wouldn't get to stay for the whole supper with my pals.

So, my friend Andrew, who has a guitar, wrote a toast for the thankgiving dinner. I can't remember what it was, but it went something like this:

We've got turkey, and we've got plates
I think I'm richer than Bill Gates.
I've never seen him masturbate,
It's turkey time again.

All my greatest friends are here.
We'll be drinking lots of beer
I won't punch the token queer
It's turkey time again

OOooooh, turkey for my friend Rosin,
and for Neal and Jenny, too.
Turkey for Laura and Marissa and Louisa and Lilli and someone else ... blah blahh blaaaaahhhh....

I'll make a toast to a great year
Neal can't drink all the beer
because he's getting out of here....
It's turkey time again.

Anyway, I think they were all easy chords to play, but regardless, at the end of the real, much more sincere version, I had a full breakdown at the table, and got really weepy because I liked having turkey with my friends. That made my cousin Jenny cry, and then Laura cried a little. Rosin didn't cry because she went home to get something. And I didn't really care what everyone else was doing because I was crying at the table. Then I ate a lot of turkey and failed to produce any meaningful literature at my four-hour Newspaper, Inc. "job" where I basically cecked my e-mail until my retinas burned through.

So, in conclusion, don't make friends ever or you'll cry at the turkey table just because a song has your name in it. Or something.


Blogger Chris! said...

Welcome to Some Cats, superdude! I hope the feeling of occupying the same webspace as four other writers doesn't make you cry, too. I could write a song too, if you want, but it'd probably be more about Transformers kissing.


11:19 PM

Blogger Ladysir said...

Transformers can kiss, but can they dream?

Glad to hear they're feeding you--even if on fake McNuggets--in Halifax, superdude.

4:17 PM


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