While some people were out getting awesome deals on new computers, blu-ray players and anal lube–what, that wasn’t on sale?–I managed to score the sweetest Black Friday deal of them all: a few extra hours of sleep. For free.
By not leaving my house in the morning–thus completely avoiding the madness of my fellow man and preserving most of my sanity–I was able to go out that night and be social. I generally don’t like being around drunk people, mainly because most drunk people do stupid things. They puke in the bushes, yell, embarassingly, at ex-girlfriends and lick the taint of steel giraffes, all in the name of alcohol. I know this because I did every single one of those things. Luckily, I’ve learned to become a better alcoholic and now only drink enough to make me appear mildly annoying; not ridiculously obnoxious.
Something that has helped my relatively smooth transition from loud drunk to social drinker has been the emergence of my new friend, gout. He doesn’t allow me to drink much beer, since, if I do, he’ll wake me from my peaceful slumber by whacking my left foot with an exceptionally large sledgehammer. The threat of excessive pain seems to have a direct effect on my decision making, and so I do as he says.
Of course, without beer, and because I detest the traditional rum/whisky options, my selection of imbibable poisons is rather limited. In my 27 years, I have pieced together a short list of all the drinks that, I feel, don’t taste like shit and/or won’t make me throw up in a bathroom stall. This list consists of two items: gin & tonic and any fruity, girly drink adorned with a tiny umbrella. And since I was going to be out at a bar, in public, where people can actually see me, I wasn’t about to order a White Russian. Nope, Friday night would be gin & tonic night.
Here’s where my Black Friday nightmare begins. Typically, when I’m at a bar, I’m ordering Sam Adams, Guinness or some other kind of hops-filled beverage, and usually, they’re all a few bucks a piece. A very small price to pay for a few pints of beautiful barley. Not so with other drinks. My gin & tonics, for instance? Six bucks a piece (+ $1 tip). Which wouldn’t be so terrible if it weren’t for the thimble-sized glass, filled to the rim with ice, that the bar insists on providing patrons. Essentially, I was paying $6 per cold shot of watered-down gin. Needless to say, by 4am, I wasn’t drunk. Or tipsy. Or happy.
What I was, was $28 lighter in the wallet and too sober to truly appreciate the goings on around me. Damn you, Black Friday. Damn you straight to hell.
Filed under: Thanksgiving
Wikipedia defines Thanksgiving as such:
Thanksgiving, also known as Thanksgiving Day, is a harvest festival. Traditionally, it is a time to give thanks for the harvest and express gratitude in general. It is primarily a North American holiday which has generally become a national secular holiday with religious origins.
As you can clearly see, Wikipedia lies.
To my understanding, Turkey Day is all about football, overeating, more football and passing out in a pool of my own gravy-filled vomit. In my family, Thanksgiving has long been a day of do-nothing and general slothfulness. Not once do I ever think about what I’m actually thankful for. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have much time to, what, with all the hours spent shoveling fistfuls of mashed potatoes in my mouth.
Let’s be honest people. Thanksgiving is just a time when you can tell your trainer to fuck off, you’re not going to the gym this week. It’s a time to go on a Theo Fleury-style bender from Thursday to Sunday. To make sandwiches out of leftovers for the next week and a half, or until you fall into a turkey-induced coma. Thankful? I’m more inclined to be thankful on December 5th, when it’s absolutely certain that I’ve survived yet another year of clogged arteries and cardiac arrest.
This year, I’m hitting up two different Thanksgiving dinners. Because, obviously, one harvest festival isn’t quite enough for my masticatory stylings. No, I need two. And there’s a really good chance that I’ll be leaving both with plastic containers. Thanksgiving, this year, will be two houses and two dinners that, when all is said and done, will last roughly 13 calendar days and cause me to gain at least 14lbs. Ten of which, will migrate directly to my waist. The other four will spread out evenly amongst my ass and, soon-to-be, second chin. It will be all sorts of awesome.
I cannot stress enough, how much I truly love this holiday. This year, I’m thankful for Thanksgiving.
And fuck you, gym. I’ll see you in December.
For anyone that peruses Deadspin, you may’ve seen my list of things for which I am thankful over there yesterday. It was supposed to come out in paragraphs and such, but sometimes shit just doesn’t go right. This is how it was supposed to read:
As a kid growing up in a town with only one sport, I was forced to find my allegiances elsewhere. Sure, Miami’s got the Dolphins — the greatest football team. They take the ball from goal to goal… eh, never mind — but my dad was a Jets fan, and that shit wouldn’t fly. So, I thought long and hard, and eventually decided to just pick teams at random. This is how it wound up:
Needless to say, the 90’s beat the shit outta’ me. Jeffrey Maier kneed me in the stomach, Eugene Robinson punched me in the face and the Detroit Red Wings kept delivering the swift kick to the nuts to finish me off. John Starks took his shots, too, but — wait for it — they all missed. After Y2K, I learned to appreciate a 40% winning percentage, because, well, that was about as good as it would get. Michael Vick, Isiah Thomas, the Post-Cal Ripken Era and the departure of every single recognizable member of the Hawks (The Wings? Serioulsy, Chris?) left me in ruins. I’ve been completely tormented. Until now. This year it’s different. I have reason to be hopeful. And thankful. Here is the Smoot list:
Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane, 25 points and second place in the division. Ever since Roenick and Amonte left, this team hasn’t felt right. Finally, I feel like there’s an upside.
Anyone but Isiah. While the Knicks are still a terribly crappy team disguised as a merely mediocre one, there is hope. Not because I believe LeBron is coming, or that the new regime has a firm grasp on things. Nope. Addition by subtraction, and that suicidal fuck skull is finally out. The least you could’ve done was get that one right, jackass.
Matt Ryan and whatever glue-like substance Roddy White is applying to his hands. I really did like Michael Vick. And maybe it was false hope. Maybe it was delusion. But I’m over it now. Roddy White can finally catch, and Ryan isn’t skipping the ball 7 yards in front of him. See you on the Lions next year, Mike.
The Florida Marlins. This year, I finally caved and traded in my American League team for the hometown, NL East dog. And they didn’t disappoint. Truthfully, I never even think about the O’s anymore. It was like dating a girl for 3 years, dumping her, meeting someone new and then realizing that you were living a lie the entire time you were with the other girl. Oh, and the sex is better.
Deadspin. Because none of my guy friends give a shit about sports. Last year, during a suicide pool conversation, my roommate actually said to me, “The NFL season is 13 weeks long, right?” He fucking won. I hate him. I love you guys.
Finally, I’m grateful for the Female Smoot. She puts up with me, and that, in itself, is an amazing feat.
Filed under: Announcements
Almost one full year ago, I abandoned this site to take on a side project. That side project turned into my main focus, and quickly left me with very little time to do anything else around here. While it was, for the most part, an overwhelming success, I’ve decided to make this my main site again.
If you wanna read some funny shit about the local baseball/football teams, i’ll leave this link over on the side somewhere so you can check that out.
For those who just wanna read the daily ramblings of an abstract mind, trapped in a cubical, drudging through a monotonous 40-hour work week, then this is where you wanna be.
Welcome back to my apartment. Hope you enjoy the redesign. It’ll be a little while before I get it just right. You’ll deal.
Now, wipe your feet before you fuck up my new carpet.