Bums Learn Life Lessons From 1780's French Peasant

I was driving home the other day from a very exhilarating game of frolf, frisbee golf. I thought I'd fit one more game into the season. I'm so glad I went out because I hit an albatross (that's a double eagle for you weak-kneed, regular golfers) on the third hole and beat my best total score ever. So, like I was saying, I'm driving home and I notice a bum sprawled out against a building on the corner of Montrose and Ashland. Huh? Generally, bums aren't seen this far north of the Loop. This was no classy Loop bum either. He was all grizzley. He looked like Zack Galifianakis dressing up as Jerry Baskin, Nick Nolte's character in "Down and Out In Beverly Hills".

Since the Thanksgiving spirit has been with me all week, I thought to myself, "Thank Jesus Christ in Heaven I'm not a fucking bum like that guy." You know? We have to be thankful for all that we have. So, when you see someone less fortunate than you you really should be giving thanks (especially durning Thanksgiving week) for not being like that pathetic wreck.

I started thinking about what his Thanksgiving dinner would be like. He might not even have any turducken scraps this year with the economy and everything. And that got me thinking about how American bums don't have any qualms about eating garbage out of dumpsters.

Then, I got to thinking about those stupid, uppity French peasant bastards again. The French peasants of the 1780's were real d-bags. At the time, an El Nino cycle caused a little ice age and destoyed many crops, which led to a grain shortage and an escalation on the price of bread. As we learned from the dirty Irishman of the 19th century, potatos are more resilient in cold weather. Unlike the dirty Irish of the 19th century, however, potatos were in abundance for the 1780's frog. But, these stinky frogs refused to eat the potato because "potatos were dirty food." If they just ate the f-in' potato, they would have lived. Instead, these too-good-for-potato frogs died! YOU'RE A DIRTY PEASANT! EAT THE DIRTY FOOD AND LIVE!

In this age where we barely learn from history, I can't help but applaud the American bum for learning a hard lesson from the stinky French.

I Think For This Thanksgiving I’ll Do More Acid Than I Did For Last Thanksgiving

With Thanksgiving approaching, like many Americans, I still haven’t made all the necessary preparations. For one, my mother asked me to pick up the turkey, and I can’t decide if I should get a 14 pounder or a 20 pounder. (I guess it depends on if uncle Javier comes!) Or I still haven’t entirely decided on just how much acid I should bring. I mean, you have to be prepared. Especially for the holidays!

Last Thanksgiving I decided to eat two hits of acid I had scored off my then girlfriend’s dad, but thinking about it now, I should have eaten at least four. By the time my mother had set the table and asked everyone to take a seat all I saw was one turkey spirit floating over the dinner table. I mean, really? What low grade shit did I take? When I eat acid at Thanksgiving, I should be seeing at least a thousand turkey spirits floating over the dinner table, an army of turkey spirits seeking revenge, so, let’s say an army of bloodthirsty, M16 wielding turkey spirits who speak Dutch. That’s what I’d like to see. Just for the fuck of it! I'd also like to see entire nebulas floating in the kitchen, not shifty little light shows coming out of the basement door.

Another thing. Last Thanksgiving, by the time my sister and father had started their annual Thanksgiving argument about the “role of communism in South America” I was petting the pecan-pie like it was a kitten and laughing uncontrollably every time my sister said Che, but what I would’ve rather been doing was staring into the living room mirror naked and looking at myself, the multiplicity of myself, as if for the first time, and talking to Che about his role in history and his role in my future-history. I would’ve asked Che all sorts of freaked out questions like, “On a metaphysical or even spiritual level, do you think we are all one?” Or “Are my bed sheets a quantum leap away from purity?” Or “Do fish feel man? Do they?” The point is when you do a little acid you talk about people in new and interesting ways, but when you do enough acid you get to talk to the actual people in new and interesting ways. Know what I mean? And instead of an electric like buzz running through your fingertips and toes, when you do enough acid, your body feels like a thousand deep-sea mermaids having a simultaneous orgasm. The difference, especially during Thanksgiving, is significant.

Anyway, all in all, last Thanksgiving last year went well. The food was good. My sister only cried once. I was found the next morning in an alley building a pyramid out of cardboard boxes. But when it comes around to this Thanksgiving I think I'll be doing a shit load more acid.