Things We're Not Thankful For
by The DT&R Writers Roundtable
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As a response to the dual pieces earlier this week, we've asked a few of our regular contributors, commissioned some of our friends, and gave some of our whores an extended lunch hour for a collective airing of grievances. As you'll find out, we need to get new friends.
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I am not thankful for letters from my landlord saying that my roomie and I are too loud. I am only home to sleep and shower, which I guess is a disturbance to the rest of the neighborhood. How about the screaming kids playing across the street or the ice cream truck? How about the mother and daughter screaming matches going on the other side of the wall or the horrible karaoke singing? They are all a disturbance to me. Does this mean I have to write letters too?
I am not thankful for the passive aggressive emails I get from my boss about being late. Doesn’t he know that I have another job and party every night which prevents me from waking up on time? Do I have to get knocked up and use my child as an excuse to come in late or leave early?
I am not thankful for last call. That means I have to order one more drink and chug it within ten minutes. Not that it’s a problem because most likely I’ve been doing that all night. But it means I’m being cut off and I really need that final drink to put my drunk ass over the edge.
I am not thankful for maggots. They gross me out. They are not cool or awesome or super or rad or fun.
I am not thankful for hangovers. But I guess they don’t really affect me all that much. Actually they encourage me to continue drinking to cope with the headache I already have.
I am not thankful for not being able to masturbate while Aunt Flo is in town. That means that I can’t have “alone time” for five days every four weeks. That’s sixty-five days per year. That pisses me off. I’m going to start taking that birth control that will stop my periods. Kiss Aunt Flo goodbye.
I am not thankful for parking tickets especially the one I just got for expired tags. The reason I haven’t renewed them is because I have old parking tickets. I have priorities. Buying drinks and clothes comes before paying fuckin’ tickets. I just dropped close to three hundred dollars (that’s sixty drinks) last week and just received two fresh ones. Give me a break.
I am not thankful for having to face reality. Why can’t I always live in dream land? I thought this world revolved around me. I should always get what I want.
I am not thankful for leaky pipes. Screw garlic, onions, wine, and the countless other things that make my sinuses flow. I’m going to start walking around with tissue stuffed up my nose.
I am not thankful for insecure dicks. They give me a rash. They can go fuck themselves and the insecure sheep.
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Ahhh Thanksgiving in Slovakia. This can only mean...
Sheep cheese...
Snow...
Slush...
Some students who neither listen nor care (and some who do of course)...
Slutty students I shan't shag...
Some isolation...
Some boredom...
Some frustration at running out of 's' words to use...
But bossman says there will be cranberries so it's all good.
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This Thanksgiving, I’m not thankful for a lot. But what I’m not thankful for more than anything else I can think of under the threat of DT&R’s editorial deadline, is online porn. I know. I’m surprised, too. But like a bounty of seasonal vegetables and fruit arranged to appear as if it's pouring forth from a bottomless, basket-woven cornucopia, online porn is no more than an illusion, a mean trick of binary light and electricity that leads men to believe women want to do it in nasty ways that actual women can’t even imagine trying to explain to the police. I know, because I've asked. So thanks, but no thanks, online porn. You won't be stuffing a turkey (or anything else) for me this Thanksgiving. I’ll keep making women uncomfortable with my own perverted suggestion.
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When I was a kid my mom told me I was special. Sounds nice when you’re a kid, but when you get older, and realize that you’re not special after all, it can be disappointing. That didn’t happen to me. As it turns out, I’m still “special”. And I’m not thankful for that.
Out in the world, most folks find they’re not very special, because they’re not. Most folks are just regular old ordinary people. Some folks think they’re special, but they’re not either. In fact, those people might be even more ordinary. When I grew up, I should have found that I wasn’t really special either. Unfortunately, everywhere I go, people do in fact think I’m “special”. And I should be thankful the good lord made me special, and be glad and give thanks, and bull fucking shit. My mom told me I was special, and that was nice. But people out in the world tell me I’m “special”. I just wish I was normal.
This year, Thanksgiving will be Thanksbutnothanksgivingmeawholelotoffuckingnothing. So happy Thanksbutnothanksgivingmeawholelotoffuckingnothing to you and your fuckin families.
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This Thanksgiving, I’m not thankful for modern science still not being able to make my skin transparent, so I can watch my guts turn food into poop. I’m not thankful for modern science still not being able to insert a spigot into my throat, so I can eat all the tasty turkey and gravy and pie I want to, and then turn the valve and watch it pour from my neck in a curdled stream. I will not be thankful until I can take a dump in rainbow colors.
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Wow, there’s a lot; hard to narrow it down. Let’s start off with a no-brainer; I’m not thankful for the Thai hooker that gave me gonorrhea. I can’t remember her name, but thanks to the surreal sensation of fire dripping out of my penis I will never forget her face. That cute, happy, smiling, “ha ha I just gave you gonorrhea and you paid me $15 dollars too” face. Really put a damper on the whole vacation.
What else am I not thankful for? Do you have a minute this could take awhile? Just as it takes me awhile to scrape the dogshit off the bottom of my shoe for the third time in one week. My girlfriend’s un-housebroken dog comes in at number 2 on the list of things I’m not thankful for. The half-Chihuahua half-retard mix likes to take shits inside my apartment in poorly lit heavily traveled locations, ensuring maximum steppage. We walk the little asshole regularly but he refuses to poop outside. It always seems like I’m on my way to work too when I step in one of those little doggie landmines. I understand accidentally stepping in shit once in a while when you’re walking outside on the grass, but stepping in shit in your own apartment three times in one week?! Utterly annoying.
These are just two of the many things that I’m not thankful for this Thanksgiving. Oh boy I could go on. But Rick gave me a 200 word limit so I have to stop now. Rick you fat-fingered bastard. I hope you slip on one of the many cum-rags that litter your apartment and crack your head open on a sharp and/or blunt object. And guess what asshole? This article is over 300 words! Stick that in your turkey. Happy Thanksgiving douchebag!
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I am not thankful for the arrogant secular-progressives on "The History Channel" who won't ever let us forget that after the Indians saved the pilgrims from starvation, we went on to massacre them, steal their land, and assault their culture. I'm not thankful for my trendy vegetarian relatives who show up to Thanksgiving dinner every single year and say, "Mmmm. It smells like burning flesh in here." I'm not thankful for Native Americans, African Americans, Asian Americans, Mexican Americans, Armenians, sodomites, gypsies, Jews, and Martin Luther King. I'm only thankful for my black candles, body paints, and talismanic pendulum.
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I'm not thankful for autumn. Autumn puts leaves on the ground outside my apartment building, leaves that are roughly the same color as my dog's shit. So I can't find the shit when I need to pick it up and I step on it because the goddamn leaves are like shit camouflage. Autumn puts shit on my shoe. Fuck autumn. What kind of season has two names, anyway? A season confused about its identity? You know who else has identity problems? Dirty, sinful queers, that's who. Autumn's a satan-worshipping sodomite. I hate you, autumn. Or fall. What the fuck ever. I'm so not thankful for you.
-The things that dangle off of Daddy's ass and bleed when he takes a shit.
-The abscess in my brother's testes.
-Crusty red bumps dotting the area around my girlfriend's mouth.
-When the neighbors tie me up, chip away at my ears with razors, and then piss on the cuts.
-The leftover fecal matter that floats around after grandma flushes the toilet.
-When my sister sabotages the tomato cottage cheese with her period discharge.
-Small abrasions on my anus.
-Severe itching and penile drip.
-Bologna.
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As Turkey Day approaches, we’re supposed to remind ourselves that we're thankful; thankful that I live in a place where over half of the population is overweight. On this day we’re supposed to embrace our new past time of eating and gluttonously filling our protruding bellies. On this day, Americans take on a challenge to eat more than they do on normal days, searching their closets for pants with elastic waistbands. I am not thankful for this whole affair. I, like a million others, am diagnosed with a digestive disorder. Chrons to be exact. Food has been the cause of many a bleak day and night. I abhor the thought of corn working its way through my ulcerated intestines. I cower to think of stuffing made with seasoning and onions settling in my ileum, forcing me to lie in the fetal position for hours on end. My aunt asks, “Mashed potatoes?” a spoon already fattened with a serving and falling onto my empty plate, “I made them with horseradish and onion butter, yum.” I imagine my ulcers popping and flaring in a festive torturous dance. “No thanks,” I whimper. I hate the scrutiny from those who don’t know the pain my innards endure just on the day to day, let alone a day like Turkey day. They question and pry, “How can you not eat? Why don’t you want to try my rhubarb pie?” No. I’m not thankful. Not one bit. (Except of course for the turkey baster, which I can use for anal sex.)
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I'm not thankful for the weight I'll gain on Thanksgiving, which will proximately result in an immediate increase in the amount of minority men gazing at my ghetto booty and saying "daaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn" as I walk in the city.
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The thing I’m currently not thankful for is my gas, which I blame directly on my mother. The reasoning is twofold.
First: Because during my trip back home to Chicago last week – to celebrate a friend’s wedding by indulging in many, many alcoholic beverages in between mounds of pizzas – my mother made a Sunday Night Football feast of sausages and Sloppy Joe. Sure, she had nothing to do with my consuming White Castle’s hamburgers for the previous two consecutive nights, but the sausages and Sloppy Joe sure didn’t help much.
Second: Her flatulent genes.
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I'm not thankful that I don't act on my thoughts. Like to put a railroad spike into this douche bag’s head, in front of me in line at Burrito Beach, who gets over-excited by what his coworkers were ordering. There is no reason to toss your hands up, widen your eyes and say, in a flamboyant voice, "A burittoooooo!!!" I am thankful, however, for HIV. This guy will most likely contract it through anal and die.
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In following with the theme involving spastic colons, I'm not thankful for the many shits I will not be taking due the massive ingestion of shitty food over this holiday weekend. Too much dairy, potatoes, rice, bread, sugar, sweets and basically anything else that tastes good or doesn't have meat in it (I'm a hippy) will cause a cease fire in my a-hole. My colon, in retaliation for not getting enough fiber, will shut down, causing my already fat gut to swell further. The inability to poop will be followed by the most atrocious smelling gas, as my undigested or unneeded food, will rot in my gut. I will moan, cry and try to drink enough beer or hard alcohol to force my colon to expel liquid fire, only to be rewarded with another round of machine gun like toots and maybe a tiny bunny turd. I also blame my mother. She used to breast feed me after she ate broccoli. I then, as a 2 year old, would spend the night walking the floors with her to get the pent up gas out.
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The DT&R Writer's Roundtable meets five times a year to trade our prosthetic limbs to each other in a heated match of Yahtzee(!). Tara's prosthetic anus is the booby prize.
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