Thanksgiving, Damon Style

As many of you know, nestled snugly in the middle of this past month was the Greco-Roman holiday of Thanksgiving.  If I’m going to be completely honest here, which I almost always am, I have no idea what in the hell makes something “Greco-Roman.”  I just heard it earlier today on CNN and I decided that I’d make myself sound smarter than I am by throwing it in there to describe something.  If you wanna hear big words in this day and age, just listen to CNN radio or NPR.  Or the Harry Potter audiobooks.  I’ve picked up some women (not really some, just one) by using the lingo from the Harry Potter series.  I’ve even come to overlook the fact that there are some main plot points in the stories that are unexplained.  For instance, how do house elves mate if they spend all their time cooking and cleaning?  Also, isn’t that what you have women in the story for?  Anyway, I liked the word “Greco-Roman”.  And if I do say so myself, it sounded pretty damn official just now.  Now, for those of you who didn’t know last Thursday was Thanksgiving, you’re probably stupid.  I was really tempted to say “definitely” instead of “probably” just now, but I didn’t.  You’re welcome.  For those of you who knew, you probably got all dressed up nice and ate turkey and watched football and whatnot.  Congratulations.  But you missed out.  While you were stuffing your face, I commemorated the Pilgrims’ taking advantage of the Native Americans’ hospitality by feasting my eyes upon majestic dragons and ogres.  Yes, that’s right, dragons and ogres.  Before you get too jealous, I feel the need to explain to you that neither dragons nor ogres exist on the Earth we now occupy.  Now you may be asking, “Okay honest Abraham, how did you spend T-giving (pretty cool nickname for Thanksgiving I just made up, just now) watching mythical beasts if there aren’t any to watch?”  Be patient, readers.  I shall inform.  I, like anyone else on the face on the planet with half a brain, enjoy watching the Shrek series.  Now, I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking that the Shrek series is just for young lads and lasses.  How did I know this?  I’ve participated in almost 2 full psychic conventions (I got kicked out of the second one, probably for being too good, but that’s for another time).  I can read minds.  By the way, I’ve always liked the word lad; it makes me think of young English boys.  Don’t get the wrong idea either, I’m no pedophile, you dick.  I’ve just always wanted an English accent.  I tried to fake one once for an interview I had at Big Lots.  I used words like “Chaps” and “fortnight” and I even said “Cheerio gov’nuh” as I was leaving.  Although I don’t really know why the English like saying cereal brands to greet and say goodbye.  Maybe they’re on to something though, maybe I’ll start saying “Apple Jacks, my brother” when I enter a room.  Ehh, maybe I won’t.  They never called me back either, the jerks.  I gave them my cell phone number and my pager number, which is something that they should have felt proud to have.  You know you’re important when I give you my beeper number.  Whatever, I didn’t want to work at Big Lots anyway.  Shit, what was I talking about again?  Oh yes, Shrek, the best thing to come out of the “Dreamworks” production company.

To give you an idea of my dedication to the movies, I once didn’t show up for a date because they were playing a Monday Marathon on the “USA” channel.  I have two things to say about this: 1) You know that Shrek is good if it’s being played on the USA channel.  They show strictly American things on there.  You know what else happens to be American?  Freedom and hot dogs.  If you don’t like Shrek, you can choke on the sweet air of American freedom while I slap you across the face with a raw hot dog.  That’s right.  Not even cooked.  2) The woman I was supposed to go out with was pretty damn fine.  I met her at those psychic conventions I was telling you about.  She’s about 5’2, blonde (so you know she’s good), and I saw her throw down 23 hot dogs in 10 minutes.  She threw up after, but anyone who is willing to sacrifice their well-being to chomp on 23 little pieces of America is good in my book.  People always say that, “in my book.”  What the hell book are they talking about?  I seriously doubt half these people that use that expression write books.  I can say it, because I actually am in the process of writing a self-help book.  I asked myself, “What do I have that most people need help with?”  As this list was fairly lengthy and occupied the better half of the construction paper I was writing on, I had a number of subjects to choose from.  I like diversity.  I picked “how to be awesome.”  Be ready for that, it should be coming out soon.

Back to my date.  I was going to feel bad for dipping out, but then I realized that she was a psychic, so she probably saw it coming.  If she wasn’t, she was a fraud for being at the convention in the first place and doesn’t deserve the 2 Big Macs I was going to spring for when we went to McDonald’s.  Apart from that, I very rarely feel bad for anyone.  Real men make their own luck.  And back to Shrek.  I think the main reason I love these movies is the fact that they have a talking donkey.  I usually don’t condone Eddie Murphy, mostly because of Doctor Dolittle 2 and Daddy Day Care, but even he couldn’t have screwed that part up.  Cinematic gold.  There’s just something about talking animals that makes my day better.  My toaster is in the shape of “Hello Kitty.”  I don’t give a shit if it’s childish, kittens are awesome.  But if I tilt my head to just the right angle when the toast pops up and the little bell goes off, it’s like the kitten is exclaiming about the great delicious toast.  I love mornings when that happens.  After my Shrek session was over, I decided to go to the mall to accomplish some Christmas shopping.  It was a productive day that day.

Actually at that point it was around midnight, and I knew that there were some serious Black Friday deals going down.  I love everything that Black Friday stands for; thrifty buys, late nights, and knocking down people to get the best products for yourself.  I wish that it was socially acceptable to push women and children and beat slower, less physically able shoppers than myself to great deals every day, but seeing as how it’s only so once a year, I make the most of it.  Last year I was responsible for two bloody noses, a broken shopping cart, and five crying children.  I know, I’m good.  I even run for things I don’t need, just to let out some aggression and teach small people why we shouldn’t have antibiotics, we should just let nature run its course.  When the nations of the world disintegrate and we’re all down to tribes and primal warfare, they’ll see why I don’t help old ladies when they fall in the street.  I don’t think some of these people would make it if they had to outrun me from a charging rhino.  In fact, I know that the vast majority would be pushed down by myself and the members of the alliance that I would have built with other strong members of my tribe.  After this, I would concentrate the efforts of the group on the domesticating of said rhino.  We would name him Remus (after Remus Lupin in the Harry Potter series), his wife Rhonda, and his children Romulus, Rafferty, and Raleigh.  We would then use our rhino herd to ward off any potential attackers and envelop other tribes.  This isn’t set in stone, it’s just a rough plan.  But back to the mall.

I threw on my “Planet Hollywood” jacket, my Croc Mocs, and a fanny pack, and stepped out of my trailer into the bitter air.  I love my Planet Hollywood jacket.  It’s made of denim (that way people know I’m classy, nothing classier than a jean jacket) and it has a big resemblance of our planet (Earth) on the back.  I say resemblance because whoever did the detail work on the drawing fudged up.  Australia is all warped and I don’t even think Antarctica’s on there.  I don’t care, I love it anyway.  Every time I wear it, people know that I went to Planet Hollywood.  It’s like a big bumper sticker for your car, but it’s on your back instead.  Another thing is I like pins.  You know, those little things that say “I Heart NY” on them.  Except for I don’t “Heart NY.”  I think it’s incredibly overcrowded and disease infested.  We could do with another plague.  But I stick a bunch of these pins on my jackets when I find them, so my Planet Hollywood one is full of pins.  I even have one of a little kid playing soccer.  I found it one day at the park.  Anyway.

I hopped in my Daewoo and started my journey.  Ehh.  I don’t know about “hopped in.”  More like “got into very slowly so as to not risk falling out of” my car.  I fell out of my car one time.  I sat right on the edge of the seat and next thing I knew I was on the ground.  Now let me say that this was on “Double Dozen Diddy Donuts Day” at my favorite local eatery, so I had an excuse to be in a rush and excited.  Two dozen of the most delicious donuts you could ever eat.  My stomach misses that day.  But anyway, I got into my car and proceeded to drive to the mall.

I listened to pump-up music the entire way to the mall, mostly Daughtry and Nickelback, so when I got to the parking lot I was ready to “throw some bows” as they say.  I don’t really get that saying, because you can’t actually throw your elbows.  I can throw snow, or even food, but I cannot throw my elbows.  Basically I was ready to accomplish what I had set out to do, and that was make my presence felt.  I cut to the middle of the line (because waiting is for chumps) by looking at the smallest man I could find and punching my fist into my hand real hard, to intimidate him.  The key is to not be too far back and to not be in the front.  If you’re in the back, you won’t get to the deals first, but if you’re in the front you don’t get to push people, so why even go.  As soon as the doors to the mall opened, I started the festivities by immediately turning around and pushing that small guy down.  He tripped some woman, and the next thing I knew there were 30 people falling down behind me.  I smiled.  There was a man in front of me, so I tripped him with my shoe (Converse All-Stars, thanks Chuck Taylor), and I stepped square on his back just to let him know he’d been dominated.  I think that’s a big thing people leave out when they beat someone at something, letting them know they’ve been trodden on and humiliated.  So, I let him know.  I beat out a small child and his mother in a straightaway sprint to get to the main section of the mall, and I laughed at them.

Okay, so let me interrupt to tell you exactly what I think of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  He is the Paris Hilton/Lindsay Lohan of magical woodland creatures.  Not only does this little jerk come in and steal the show from Santa Claus (who just happens to be a personal hero of mine), but he’s got the nerve to get some plastic surgery on his nasty ass nose.  Now let me say that I don’t hate all plastic surgery; just the vast majority.  Actually scratch that, I hate all of it.  Especially nose jobs.  So you can see why, when this little b-word of a reindeer gets his nose done all red, I have an issue with that.  I think if I were Prancer or Blitzen or Donner or one of the other reindeer, I’d break Rudolph’s legs on Christmas Eve.  Effing show off.  I bet his parents are disappointed in him.  So when I see this figurine of Rudolph on some pedestal or whatever at the mall, I take offense.  By the way I think people who use words like “pedestal” should go live in their own community.  Us normal people don’t need you flaunting your big words at us.  So what if you went to college?  I went to safety school when I was younger and you don’t see me bragging about it.  Anyways, I saw this Rudolph thing just chillin’ there and I wanted to send a message to everyone at the mall.  So, I took a break from the fervor of the Black Friday rush and I displayed my physical prowess by putting the statue in a half-nelson right there in the middle of the concourse.  As I was doing this, I simultaneously removed a Kodak disposable camera from my fanny pack and took a photo right then and there.  It’s now my Myspace profile picture.  It’s of me with a really angry look on my face and this statue looking really dumb, with one of its ears broken off and its nose all smudged.  It looks like an idiot.  I’m pretty good at multitasking with things like that, and I’m a great photographer.  I went to Kinko’s one time and had some of my photos blown up to put on my wall, it was pretty official.  That’s one expression I don’t get, “blown up.”  If you don’t have a bomb, you shouldn’t be talkin’ explosives.  But I only take pictures with disposable cameras.  And I don’t care if you think they’re old fashioned, they’re still awesome.

After I did this, the child I had just ran past with disgusting ease, clearly intimidated by my moves, started crying and stomping his feet.  What a wimp.  His mother grabbed his hand and led him away, and while she was walking away she muttered something about “taking it down a notch.”  Look lady, if you want to shelter your kid from all that is man, go right ahead.  I wasn’t about to tell her how to raise her kid; but if I were, I would tell her to cut his hair.  He looked like Shirley Temple.  I hate everything about Shirley Temple; the drinks, the hair, the soup; I don’t give a shit what’s in your soup, put all the crackers you want in there, just don’t sing annoying songs about it.  Anyway, fresh off my display of raw power, I strode into Marshall’s.  This store is the best.  I can get my mother some sort of apron, because she should be in the kitchen making me turkey and pies on Christmas, and my brother some fashion sense.  After collecting my family’s gifts (and a few choice pieces for myself, got some killer elastic-band jeans), I exited Marshall’s and went home.  Black Friday: success.


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