A BETTER CELEBRATION

Today is, I believe, the day when you express gratitude that you only see Uncle Gordmund once or twice a year. He's from the Red States. Beyond being barely literate and down rabbit holes, he's a non-smoker and consequently inside for the entire visit, spouting repulsive opinions he got from the blonde slut on Fox. No, he doesn't smell bad. But he stinks.

On the other hand, I merely have a ghost cat.

There's a faint whiff of tuna.

You've just been told that everything in the Macy's Thanksgiving parade is gay damned New Yorkers pushing their DEI agenda on everybody back in his day inflatables of Henry Ford and Huey Long ever since that effing effer changed his name to something Muslim damned kids they're all a bunch of commies and billions of illegals all over the world mumble grumble bellyache and whine.

I've just read that Alexander and his lovely wife are presently in Jakarta where it's slightly over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and too warm to do anything else than smoke a Cuban with a cup of coffee. After a small meal with lots of Makassar chilies.

The ghost cat thinks he probably had some tuna.
Which is superlative with hot chilies.
Just try it, you'll see.

Mary from the Deep South claims this cranberry sauce is the best she ever made, and uncle Gordmund, keen to deflate any and every balloon (as well as rain on parades, because) says that it isn't as good as his first wife's sister used to make. In the years before she headed into the Great North Swamp while zotsed on diet pills and was never seen again. All they found was her scarf and sunglasses. The liberals probably ate her. Kids those days!

Oh good, the game is on. He'll be quiet now.
While cheering for the Packers.
America's team!


Tuna. Tuna is a lovely canned item. It belongs in every jello mold. With chopped celery and pimentos, precisely one teaspoon of Tabasco. Parsley on top, as a nod to French cuisine, and paprika because of Gordmund, still the most Eastern European of the older generation. Paprika on everything. His first wife's sister used to do a lovely turkey with paprika.
Not this younger generation. Trump! Bondi! Noem and Patel! Go packers!

The younger cousins look at you with envy as you put on your scarf and boots to outside with your pipe. An entire hour of peace and quiet out by the compost heap, with nothing but marshbirds for company. The youngsters wish that they smoked.

Next year, Jakarta. Chicken with Makassar chilies.
It will be the best holiday ever.
Cheroot.



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