Obviously, if you've been reading this blog all year, you know it's been hard and weird, sort of like chewing on a penny. This was the year I chewed on a million pennies. And now the excess electricity is pushing me.
Next year is going to be so fucked up guys. There are so many babies coming. There are going to be so many dance parties, with cats and dogs and babies and cars and people and brooms and bottles and rusty old machinery and empty streets and crowds and ice storms and just all fucking sorts of shit, it's going to be so weird. And if it's not, we're not trying hard enough.
The Secret History of Thanksgiving, As Told Through Traditional Food Preparations.
In the dark and still forests, our ancestors hunted their enemies, the dangerous alien bird mutants, who had come from beyond the moon. Their feathers dripped acid, their eyes burned black holes into our flesh, but our forefathers were brave, and tore apart their extra terrestial flesh and fed it to their dogs and children. Dogs first. The war raged for centuries, as the legions of bird mutants filled the skies like drops of water.
It threatened to go on for millenia more, and would have, except for the brave sacrifice of a young skinny girl, who camouflaged herself in leaves and mushrooms, and infiltrated the aliens secret base nest.
She lived in caves underneath the nest for months, living off root vegetables she pulled from the earth around her. Her skin became orange and tough like their peels. Her teeth crumbled from malnutrition.
Stealthily, every day while the despicable fowl were sleeping, she planted little round bombs, made of clay and butter from the combustible cows of Colorado, under the foundations of the base. It was an arduous mission, she longed for it's completion. One morning, finally, she saw the sign, hidden by her cave entrance.
And that evening, as the sun went down, she crept out of the cave. The alien bird mutants were rousing from their roosts, and she was spotted by a sentry too late, standing victorious by the edge of the dark woods, detonator in hand. Her village watched from the hills, as she hit the button, and blew the monsters back into the sky.
Their red blood rained down for hours.
And turned the rivers and wells to sludge, destroying the villagers' crops. Famine threatened all of humanity.
But the resourceful mothers gathered the roots under the earth, and fed their families pie until the waters cleared.
And also, maybe lingonberries? The history books are unclear. But tonight we celebrate the actions of one brave little girl, who single-handedly won the war with the Great Mutant Turkey Aliens. We remember you Macy. We will never forget.
So here's how the Triple Crown works. It's three horse races in Spring, and if one horse wins them all, he or she is a champion. Each town that hosts one of these races has a plethora of traditions built behind the day. In Louisville, for the Kentucky Derby, everyone gets wasted on mint juleps and wear big fancy hats. In Baltimore, for the Preakness, everyone gets wasted on black eyed susans, and eats a lot of crab cakes. And for the last race, the huge Belmont in NYC, everyone hides from their bookies and drinks beer.
Point is, New York is already the lamest of the races. This is probably because a) by the time the Belmont happens, we usually know there will be no Triple Crown Winner this year, and b)Long Island is not exactly as picturesque as Kentucky or Maryland. Nobody even gets dressed up for the Belmont, everyone is just standing around in bright colored t-shirts, drizzling bud light from flimsy plastic cups onto the bus terminal style asphalt, trying not to pass out from the packed sweaty humanity on all sides.
Before every race, there is a song and everyone in the audience sings along. At the Derby, they sing My Old Kentucky Home. It is a remnant of the soul of the South, all the rich horse farmers and their flower blossom wives, singing reverently together. At the Preakness, everyone sings the state song "Maryland My Maryland", commemorating the Baltimore Riots at the beginning of the Civil War. It sounds exactly like "Christmas tree, oh christmas tree" and is really easy to follow.
Traditionally, the one redeeming moment of the Belmont is when everyone in the audience holds up their beers and raucously bellows out Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York." Which is a goddamn annoying song, but everyone knows it and so everyone is brought together for a few minutes in their drunken civic pride.
This year, they changed the song. To this.
Only it wasn't even Alicia Keys singing it, it was some unknown pop "star" who probably realized it was a mistake to sign up for this as soon as the crowd started ignoring her, cause they didn't know the fucking words, and the networks cut her off for a commercial break.
Conversational topics I participated in NYE 2009/2010
1. relationships 2. letting your child watch Paranormal Activity 3. Did said child get up and stare at you in the middle of the night as a joke, or was he sleepwalking, or was he just really scared cause you let him watch that fucking movie and he's 12? 4. The amount of papers CSU makes you write 5. What's more nutritional, brussel sprouts or broccoli? 6. Dancing? Saturday? 7. Avatar 8. Ayn Rand's intention with individualism 9. Killer Bunnies 10. being targeted by the Christian Mafia at work for having a beard and a tattoo
11. His trip to Amsterdam 12. Walking on a glacier, and appropriate places to do that. 13. reality survivalist shows 14. what people store in other people's garages 15. Windmill tours and clog factories in the dark 16. making her drink champagne out of that thing 17. teaching your kid to put their face under the water 18. the last season of Roseanne 19. whether or not we could justify crushing a submarine like a tin can in the screenplay, because he really wants to see that happen. 20. socks with toes 21. If you were to replicate a human brain by designing a machine that would synthesize a neuron inside the robotic body as you removed it from the organic body, would it be the same person? Would it be like waking up from a sleep, or would you be gone?
Whoever sent me that text, no worries, I will keep fucking that chicken. Promise. As long as you stay classy.
