Nearly 400 years ago, the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, and before they threw AIDS-riddled blankets on the Indians, they paused to give thanks for bountiful harvests and good fortune. Ever since, elementary school teachers and grandmothers have been insisting that we're a spoiled lot who ought to count our blessings and attempt to be more grateful from time to time. So, in an effort to stop their nagging, we're celebrating this Thanksgiving by saying, "THANKS A LOT, A-HOLE!"
THANKS A LOT, DYSLEXIC TATTOO ARTIST
I gave you one simple job, tattoo artist—and you fucked it up. It's not like I wanted the Japanese character for "strength" on my lower back, for chrissakes. Just three simple words. In English. How do you fuck that up? "Sktae or Die"? What the hell does that mean? What, did your mind wander? Did you get distracted for a sec, thinking about what you were going to have for lunch? Did a hot girl walk by? Or is it that you're actually dyslexic, because if that's the case, I might consider a change in careers, to something like dogcatcher, or window washer, or, I don't know, any field in which you don't indelibly etch your learning disability into human flesh. Thanks a lot, a-hole.
THANKS A LOT, VANCOUVER
Dear Vancouver, Washington: Thanks for contributing to Portland's cancer rates by polluting and clogging up our freeways with your stupid SUVs and 4X4s. While Portland is more than happy to provide you with jobs, entertainment, and tax-free shopping, it would be nice if you could occasionally return some of our generosity. For example: (1) Start providing a more attractive stable of prostitutes. (2) Keep your meth addicts from wandering across the border. (3) Institute and enforce a redneck extradition program. (4) Institute and enforce a pedophile extradition program. (5) Institute and enforce a rapist extradition program. And (6) stay on your side of the river.
THANKS A LOT, MOM
Mom, thanks for all that you've done for me. Packed my lunch every day when I was a kid, paid my way through college, and taught me about treating other people with kindness. And oh yeah—for making out with Benny Lister at my senior-year kegger! Yes, you apologized and cried your fake whore tears, and you convinced me not to quit school, which I almost did. And just because we haven't spoken about it since, don't think that I forgot that you let Benny fucking Lister, who I've known since sixth grade, stick his tongue down your throat. I'm glad you went to treatment and got sober after I went to college, but meanwhile, I was sleeping with every guy and girl on campus trying to forget about it. FYI, slut—Benny told everyone at school that your breath tasted like dick and he didn't know if he was grabbing your boob or your fat roll. Feel good about yourself now? Should have thought about that before Frenching my classmate, Mom.
THANKS A LOT, BENJI GOMEZ, FOR PUSHING ME INTO AN ANTHILL IN THE THIRD GRADE
This year, I'm thankful for that pint-sized ball-sniffer Benji Gomez, who taught me a valuable lesson in distrust and misanthropy at an early and highly impressionable age. While I was minding my own business during recess, Benji quite artlessly pushed me. Into an anthill. Full of fiery red, bloodthirsty desert ants. The thousand poisoned bites weren't nearly as painful as being the fat kid running across the yard, past the girls' volleyball court, while flailing and shrieking and stripping off my shirt. From that moment on, I knew that no one could be trusted, and everyone deserved to be hated. And for that, I am eternally thankful.
THANKS A LOT, MARATHONERS
Last time I checked, Sunday mornings are for sleeping, or if you absolutely MUST, praying. So THANKS A LOT, MARATHON RUNNERS, for trying to "race for the cure" in front of my apartment every other Sabbath day, and thanks also to your fans for interrupting my hangovers with their airhorns and cheers. TOOT—TOOT! FUCK—YOU! Why the hell can't you achieve something on a Thursday, like normal people? Next time, I'm going to soak you with a bucket of ice water emptied from my fifth floor window, and bring on the walking pneumonia you all deserve. Thanks! No, no, AFTER YOU. Let ME. The pleasure will be all mine...
THANKS A LOT, PENIS PUMP
You know, looking back? Things were okay. Maybe not the best. Maybe not the longest, or the girthiest. But okay. It got the job done, right? No complaints! Okay, one or two complaints. Maybe three. Four, tops. But no. I had to decide it wasn't enough. I had to get that goddamn penis pump. Oh, things were fine at first. A bit of growth. More like swelling, but whatever. Kept on pumping? All right. Things are okay. And then—THWAP! THWAP! Two balls, squeezed right into the pump. SWEET FUCKING CHRIST, THAT HURT. I yank that motherfucker off with a POP and next thing you know, I've got blood blisters and all sorts of weird shit going on down there. Something leaking. Something that wasn't piss or come. Something that was both. Oh, fuck. Oh, oh fuck. I ran out of toilet paper trying to soak all that shit up! And now—fucking three days later—my hard-on looks like a goddamn question mark. A question mark with blood blisters. You don't want to know what it looks like flaccid. But oh, shit, it hurts. It hurts so much. Thanks a lot, penis pump.
FANKS A WOT, BAWTENDEW WHO CUT ME OFF JUS BECA I HA A SPEE IMPEDIMEN
S-s-o I s-s-stuttah. Owkay? I s-s-stuttah. And I s-s-lur a b-bit. So my "R"s sound like "W"s. Is that weally s-s-uch-ch a big deaw? N-no! Is n-n-not a big deaw! Excep when I wanna get a d-dwink. An then is all, 'Oh, I'm sowwy siw, I think you've had enouv." And I'm l-l-l-ll-l-l-l... I'm l-l-like, "No, I jus ha a spee impedimen. Please g-g-give me anothew." And you'we like, "No, siw, weally. You'we ob-ob-ob-obviouswy intoxicated. Do you wan me to caw you a cab?" And I'm wike, "No, assho, I jus wan anothew d-d-d-dr-dri-d... anothew b-beew." And then y-you caw the cops, an-an they don't bewieve me eiver, I en up in d-d-d-detox. F-f-f-f-f-fanks a wot, a-ho.