Jackie is prepping the Thanksgiving feast as we speak.
She had a dream that she left the giblets in the plastic bag and in the bird. Whilst I'm s'pos'd to be peeling apples and potatoes I have craftily, shrewdly, deftly, furtively, and almost succinctly, managed to be thrown out of the kitchen.
So, I would love to take a pilgrimage into the past, and discuss Jackie's Calvinist and Hobbes post from last Día de la Gracias.
You see, it's a true story, and it happened like this:
A long time ago, on a continent, far, far, far away (by yesterdays standards, for in those days, they measured distances by having someone run as fast as they can and yelling, "Faaaaaar!" and when you could still barely hear him, that was considered far; which is why mother's always told their children not to run off to far) a ship set sail for the Americas. It was a long and boring journey, and not really important to the rest of the story. But they got there and set up a colony.
There was this guy named John Smith, who met an emo tween named Pocahontas (which was not her real name, by the way). You might say they hit it off right away, he liked her 'cause she was young and exotic, and she liked him for all the bling he wore.
Her family did not approve, and decided to have him whacked.
Miss P. stepped in and saved him, of course. Her father, Wahunsunacawah (which means Capulet), forbade her from ever seeing him again, and that would have been the end of that, if not for John Rolfe.
Oh yeah. We're having turkey for lupper today because we were packing on the real Thanksgiving.