It is once again that terrible and momentous time of Novemblog in which Thanksgiving happens. For one, Rob goes into some sort of healing trance coma to deal with the ample amounts of food in his voluminous belly. That, of course, is business as usual. More than that, though, is the fact that he has at best 3G. Apparently, it's no longer the neighborly thing to do to leave your wireless network unsecured to allow neighborhood scamps a cup of internet before bed. This causes several distinct but related things to occur.
1.) Rob has to do these posts on his phone.
2a.) Because Rob has to do these posts on his phone, he loses any real sense of word count.
2b.) Because Rob has to do these posts on his phone, writing individual words takes much longer, because two thumbs are not as good as ten digits (even if Rob has the loath magma callus off handshakes).
2b-1.) Inasmuch as Rob must use his phone to type these posts, and inspfaf (that's supposed to he "insofar") as Rob's phone is somewhat old and the touchscreen does not work as well as it used to (and that was even before he turned off the tactile feedback to avoid disturbing his sister any more than the large Ikea lamp (or Sbüfsen or whatever the Swedes decided to call a lamp. And, no, I don't think it was "Bork.") that is providing the light for this post (other than the phone, of course)), there have been several instances of the screen dragging down to lower text locations that have been copied and pasted from previous notes taken via text message and the like, thereby both hindering progress and vexing Rob greatly.
2b-2.) Given that Rob is typing this post on his phone, and given that two thumbs are inferior to ten fingers, it may be postulated (and confirmed by empirical methods) that more typos than usual will occur and require correction. This phenomenon continues in spite of the application of auto correct, as seen above.
3.) Because Rob must do these posts on his phone, he is unable to make judicious use of Google Images, which leads to an absence of pictures and therefore picture captions and therefore the words and bellowing laughter generated by picture captions. (Normally, around here I'd have a picture of a laughing Brian Blessed with a caption of, "HA HA HA HA HA." Either that or a picture of Stilgar with a caption of, "We have laugh sign the likes of which GOD has never seen!" My lack of Google Images prevents me from doing either of those things. Thanks, Obama.)
4.) Because Rob is writing these posts on his phone, he sometimes goes so slowly that he forgets his point. Oh, yeah, there it is.
5.) Because Rob is writing these on his phone, he has to contend with the DROID spellcheck, which is comparable to that of Firefox, exert that DROID will automatically correct any instance of DROID to the all caps version of DROID, which frankly makes a lot of lines in Star Wars much funnier. For example, "What I really need is a DROID that speaks Boyce," or, "These aren't the DROIDS you're looking for." Okay, fine, I had to trick it on that last one. It really wanted "DROIDS" to be "DRUIDS." And, really, that just adds a whole new layer of humor to the whole franchise. C3PO and R2D2 building a nice Henge in the midst of Britain, walking around with cloaks and long beards, and possibly turning into bears, depending on your source material. (Here's a hint: they can almost always turn into bears.)
Anyways, with those points made.and established in the record, I suppose that I should start on some sort of actual plot to the post other than why it drives Rob up several types of very verbose walls to attempt the writing of these posts on his phone. And, thankfully, I have just the thing.
Thanksgiving with Rob and the Family. That's right, you're going to get a never before seen (well, beyond our family and friends who usually join us at Thanksgiving) look at the inner workings of a Robbie Campbell From Memphis, Tennessee Thanksgiving.
First off, the players.
Rob- an intrepid and handsome teacher cum scientist cum amateur guitarist (but a poor one) cum writer and adventurer extraordinaire... LADIES. Allergic to cats. Also, DROID, do you not recognize the word "extraordinaire?" There is much you have to learn, old chap.
Captain Crunch- Rob's father, who gas on at least several occasions repelled the sogs from our shores and cereal bowls. Makes a mean smoked salmon and most anything else if you're willing to wait a month for it.
Carmen Eileen- Rob's mother, who once killed fitty men. Not a fan of 80's music.
Jane Goodbar- Rob's sister, an inspiration to us all in the kitchen and at the hospital.
Renée Hvorstovsky- Rob's aunt and founder of the feast. Owns two cats (DRAMATIC TENSION) and what borders on way too many books (as if such a thing were possible).
Senor Ferrari- Renée's friend and sassy confidant. Makes some mean sprouts. Can stop a man at fifty paces in two languages. Weaknesses include vomit and coffee makers.
Drs. Alan Grant and Laura Dern- engaged friends of Jane with a fondness for Trader Joes and fine cheeses disguised as dinosaurs. Dr. Grant protects our gardens from aliens with, I don't know, rayguns and shit. Dr. Dern cracks skulls in the scrum, on the rink, and in the classroom.
Kitteh Dumb and Kitteh Dee- cats.
And now it's time for the shoe! (What did I tell you about this goddamns phone in point 2B-2? I sounds like a Swedesman.)
1300- Rob, Captain Crunch, Carmen, and Jane arrive at Renée's esteemed estate on an autumnal breeze heralded by light rainfall. Kitteh Dumb and Kitteh Dee (cats) are greeted (from afar, in Rob's case) and items are placed in appropriate places.
1330- Renée's friend, who shall rename nameless because she is sick, was supposed to bring potatoes. Specifically, mashed potatoes (though we all know that they may also be boiled or stuck into a stew by stupid fat Hobbits). Because she is currently sick, Rob is given the noble task of peeling potatoes like so much Beetle Bailey (but funnier and not as lazy).
1335- The wine must flow. Whites and reds are dealt out like a sick form of roulette where everyone's a winner. Rob continues to peel potatoes as Renée works the turkey and the others entertain the cats.
1410- Senor Ferrari arrives, although not in his namesake. We are all somewhat disappointed, but the disappointment is short-lived due to the judicious application of wine. A lamp (the Sbüfsen or Bork, depending on your interpretation and linguostic choices) is assembled and placed. Captain Crunch, spurred on by the wine, wrestles wild salmon and prepares them over smoke. Well, at least he begins to.
1435- Jane, having conjured a powerful red wine chocolate cake from mere dry goods and red wine, prepares a marscapone icing to allow its divine digestion by mere mortals.
1445- After what seems like several eternities, Captain Crunch deems the salmon fit for consumption atop a bed of fine cheeses and herbs. The hedonism would be delightfully palpable if not for one fact: Rob is out of wine. An inauspicious start.
1510- Drs. Grant and Dern arrive atop the wings of a mighty pterodactyl. In honor of their presence, a bottle of fine cava is poured (including one for our nameless homie who was supposed to bring the potatoes, which Rob has by now finished peeling and washing). Captain Crunch, having forced the salmons' descendants into servitude, chooses a strong salmon as an example and agajn prepares it with aromatic smokes.
1540ish- Having assembled all necessary players, another bottle of cava is opened in celebration. No bottle shall go untouched, nor any liver go undamaged.
1600- A potent butternut squash soup is served. The gathered throng's approval indicates that even lowly vegetables may be prepared to this noble assembly's liking.
1615- Warmed by the soup and emboldened by the wine, Captain Crunch and Carmen Eileen regale the gathered few with a story in which a young Rob assumed the form of an axe-wielding anaconda and began to thrash his head most noisily against a wall. Riotous laughter ensues, even from the salmon. This will not do.
1645- Intermission. Captain Crunch moves to quell the revolting salmon. Their demands for an aquatic environment are swiftly subdued with no lack of excessive force.
1745- The salmon uprising once again crushed (but for how long?), 80's band Europe serenades the crowd with tales of standing tall enroute to Venus. Carmen is unimpressed by their display and their hair. The feast is almost prepared. Potatoes are mashed. Stuffing is heated. Turkey is carved. Wine is drunk.
1800- The feast is served. Brussel sprouts, mashed potatoes, stuffing, a fine goat cheese and buttnernut squash gnocchi complement the turkey and the wine. These giants of.men, these captains of industry fall upon the food and silent. That's right- motherfucking zeugma. Deal with it.
1900- The feast consumed, the scraps and leavings must be disposed of. Shall they go to the salmon? Most certainly not. They shall be discarded and fed upon by vermin and wild dogs. Meanwhile, Senor Ferrari does battle with a coffee maker and would have surely perished if not for the timely intervention of Dr. Grant and Captain Crunch.
1930- Despite gorging themselves.on meats and vegetables, more is demanded, always more. And, behold, dear reader, more is provided. The red wine cake is portioned to those gathered, but still they clamor for more. A pie of the tartest apples is obtained, but still they shout for more. The.sweetest of harvest wine.is prevented, but it merely whets their fearsome appetites. At long last, iced milk scented with the finest vanillas and cocoas are retrieved, and the crowd falls upon their plates with ferocious slurping noises that are just the most awkward to hear. Within several bites and a belt of wine, Rob begins to privately ponder if they may.not have overreached; he ignores these thoughts.and the growing pain in his belly and continues.
1955- Within 25 minutes, Rob's blasphemous prophecies have proven correct. The table is surrounded by a low conversation punctuated by the groans of those.around it. Still they laugh, but their.laughter is more subdued. Even the application of more wine fails to rouse this band of brothers (and sisters) from its stupor.
2035- The plates and bowls are again cleaned. The carcasses are discarded like so much used Kleenex. The remaining food is apportioned to those with the capacity to eat again. One by one, the party disbands, heading out again into the winter winds and fog. They retreat to their halls and their.caves, bellies full and appetites sated. They return home, there to sleep, satisfied to a man with the days feasting.
Satisfied to a man... but not to a salmon.
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