Quite honestly, it’s the turkey’s fault. The bird, you see, is bland. As the centerpiece for the year’s most monumental meal, you’d think tradition would demand a tastier carnal sacrifice. Steaks, for example; while the butthole of a carved-up cow is slightly more difficult to stuff with celery and bits of crumpled bread, the reward of a red meat repast is well worth the effort. (Of course, the first problem with this scenario being the location of the moo-moo’s poop-chute. I mean, is it in the ribeye, the KC strip, the sirloin or the club steak? My god, have we been salivating all the years over filet mignon only to discover we’ve been duped by Bessie and her co-horts–a final jest of tasty ordure delivered to our unsuspecting palates as we sizzle her flank and roast her rump?) Serving steak, one separate plate per person, also imparts the dignified notion that each one of us is different, that we don’t all have to feed at the same flighty trough. And, with the turkey you have racial decisions with which to wrestle (dark meat! white meat!), but with steak, why, it’s all pink in the middle.

The Insta-Princess worships Thanksgiving. The pies, the bird, the trimmings and the drinks, she’s a big fan of all of it. “Good Eats” is her motto this time of the year, and although I respect her love for the holiday, I’d be just as happy to kick it out of the pantheon of days off during the year and replace it with, I dunno, maybe something like my birthday.

Bingo.

I’ve been bored by Thanksgiving for as long as I can remember. As a kiddo (I was frickin’ adorable) I was forced to get dressed up and go forth to a family member’s house (usually my maternal grandparents) and do absolutely nothing. Oh, sure, we were allowed some cuts of dry meat and horrible gravy, but after dinner in a house full of adults who, frankly, weren’t paying any attention to us, there was nothing to do. The one television was hidden behind a swarm of aunts and uncles; the only toys in the house were leftover Barbies circa my mother’s childhood; running outside was forbidden lest we bring holy ruin to our clothes; and if the television ever did make an appearance, it was tuned to a football game. No books, no games, no wrestling, no races, nothing.

Worst of all, no gifts.

There, I said it. I despise Thanksgiving to this day because I got absolutely zilch out of it as a wee one. I mean, hey, Easter was slightly worse in some ways (had to sit through an hour of hard wooden pews and boring sermons before our ecclesiastical sentence was lifted for the day), but you ended up with chocolate galore and plastic Easter eggs filled with yet more treats of both the cash variety and the edible kind. (Fittingly enough, if all eggs weren’t found you could hunt for them up to three days later, thus introducing a special brand of divine ressurrection.) Thanksgiving, however, there were no bright baskets holding a tasty Peter Cottontail prisoner in an equally bright box; there were no gifts under a tree waiting to be unwrapped and fawned over; there were no candy hearts and Scooby-Doo wishes for a Happy Valentine’s Day; there were no birthday cakes and no candles to blow out. No, there was just boring old turkey and the official colors of Thanksgiving: brown and more brown. Blah, I insist, it’s a blah holiday.

Blah-humbug.

Skippy go zooooooooooooooooommmmmmm!

Officer go: “Stop!” (Sadly, not in the name of love.)

Skippy go:

Officer go: Busted!

Skippy go: “A ticket? But I was only going 76 in a 60!”

Officer go: “Haw-Haw. Puny man.”

Skippy go: “Awww!”

Skippy goes s-l-o-w-e-r… until officer go away. Then, zooooooooooooooooommmmmmm!

(We won’t mention the exhorbitant fees it’ll take to get this pled down to a harmless, we-won’t-screw-with-your-insurance-rates, charge, mind you. Because that just takes away from my rebel-like demeanor. You can’t very well tell The Man to go to hell when you’re paying him for the pleasure of doing so. Also, yes, my rough-and-tough leather jacket is lambskin… why do you ask?)

Having just learned the meaning of the title of this post, let me admit to already being in love with it. It’s a euphemism, friends, Romans, countrymen; it’s a delightful way of saying I’m snookered. And not the snookered that comes with being snooked from the delightful game of ‘snook’ (I confess to not knowing if there is such a creature); no, instead, although I possess enough faculties to recall the existence and possible appropriateness of using a semi-colon, I am without a doubt, and thanks to the help of the BBC for suppling me with the term, snozzled.

That is, drunk.

Also, cocksuckers.

The last, I admit, is the influence of having watched nearly three seasons of ‘Deadwood’ within a week. “But Skip,” you rightly protest. “Surely there are better ways to spend your time. There are blankets to feed and homeless to give out; there are 1-800 numbers to call so as to pledge your charity and love and fine attention to detail of the altruistic sort. What be-ith your path?”

Cocksuckers.

Well, okay. I take my education in 19th century territorial speech (as presented by those peckerwoods at HBO programming) a bit too seriously. But, as lax as their attention to history might be, they do present a compelling case in the support of whiskey. Specifically, in my case, scotch. Their bartenders in the show dispense fermented corn and grain in prodigious amounts (fuck off; I spelled “prodigious” without your help), so earlier this week I ventured forth from the confines of a dog pile of devastating illnesses (walking pneumonia, stomach flu, and astounding good looks… if you must know, you nosy wankers) to hunt for the elusive whiskey bottle. Instead, what I stumbled across was a bottle of single-malt Glenmorangggggie.

Skip’s Total Knowledge of Single-Malt Scotch:

It only has one malt. Not even a shake, nor smoothie, nor cup of swirled yogurt, but one malt. One. Uno. Less than two, but more than less than one.

So, is that what trapped me tonight in rapture of its blitzed glory? No. Kinda. Mostly, though, I blame the Shiraz. ‘Shiraz’, my friends is Australian for “We pretend it’s wine.” And pretend well they do, indeed; I was almost convinced as per my grand education at the America School For Vino. (This is true, so do not doubt me at my word. You may not find such a school even after the sweatiest, most grueling Google search, but fret not. I would never lie to you; I, who has been truthful from Day One. I also darn my socks. The socks I received after graduating from the America School For Vino. See? Proof.) But just to be sure, and in honor of my wife who cannot help suss out what is genuine wine and what is genuine wine in her current state of glorious knocked-up, I downed the whole bottle in her honor. After that, I chased it with a shot of scotch so as to teach that wine a lesson.

Which finds me here, at the computer, idly wondering what happens after I push the letters on this keyboard. Tomorrow, I fear, I will find out. I, a courageous adventure, will discover after reading this entry, the malaria of my mind. I only hope that I insert the correct number of commas.

Also, thanks to Deadwood, I hope to open a saloon at the end of the week. The gals all have hearts of gold, it seems, and the whiskey flows freely. Plus, let’s admit, the double doors gracing the entryway are kind of cool.

Oh, Rubber Ducky, you’re the one.
You make bath time lots of fun.

Especially when you whip out the handcuffs and ball gag.

Quack!

An old high school friend of mine recently opened up a shop devoted to the wares that bind and titillate and hum and zig and zag and slather and vibrate as if powered by Marquis de Energizer Bunny. It’s a ye olde shoppe devoted to exploration and education of delectation and tawdriness, and as far as I could tell when I hung around (stop it!) for a half-hour waiting for my friend to return to the store, its patrons seem delighted with the items on sale, and the knowledge for gratis.

So, if you’re in Kansas City and need something to help push your buttons (or someone else’s), take a stroll down to Wink, where you can squeal for delight at the great number of toys within, or do so with the help of a vibrator with, at last count, three motors and three million settings. (I might be off by a hundred. And you think I’m joking…)

Aside from the oils and other sybaritic delights peppered about the store, it was good to see Elizabeth again. Over the years, long past graduation, we’ve run into each other a handful of times, and each meeting is always memorable and a hoot. Elizabeth is definitely a one-of-a-kind, sweet gal whose presence always stirs up a cheery and charming je ne sais quoi. A fierce and dedicated compadre, it’s a delight to have known her this long, and I’ve little doubt that her little boy will grow up to reflect having such a groovy mom. So, I hope her new pleasure pad of play serves both her and her customers well for years to, um… come.

By the way, she’ll always be “Liz” to me. That’s how I first new her, and how I remember her the best. “Elizabeth” is a flow of fun syllables, no doubt, but “Liz” is a celebration of the zed, the omega of a seductive and serpentine dance all short and sweet.

You know, like her.