Gobble. Fuckin’. Gobble.

I’m not going back home to dear old Indiana for either holiday this year. I spent a metric fuckton (which, by the way, is 103 metric shittons and 2.783 x 104 English turd-loades) going back east for the weddings and homecoming (both on airfare and booze, naturally), so I can’t really afford to go back again. Thankfully, my parents are coming out here for Christmas, so they’ll get to experience the joy of it not being quite cold enough to snow, but still getting a plethora of wind, rain and just-above-freezing temperatures. So they got that goin’ for ‘em…which is nice.

 Howie’s family is taking me in today, much as they did on Christmas Eve last year. The main difference between this year and last is that I am still, to this day, astonished that Howie and I made it home alive from Christmas Eve. We. Were. Drunk. Later on that evening, we got thrown out of the only bar open in Howie’s pohdunk little town because I was trying to give some girl my number, didn’t have a pen, and went behind the bar to get one. Turns out, that’s a no-no. Luckily, as I was being escorted out, I remembered that I had my business cards in my wallet (the only legitimate use of such things) and threw one at her as I went out the door*. As I stood outside, waiting for my asshole friends, smoking a cigarette and calling who I believe was Ms. Maggie E Tiernan to tell her that I had gotten thrown out of a bar on Christmas Eve, out came my buddy Mike. He had done the same damn thing for a coaster. Shortly thereafter, out came Howie. What had he done? Nothing. But his two moron friends had done something, so they just threw him out for good measure. This is what friends are for.

I’m bringing the Apple Pie and the whiskey to Thanksgiving. I’m using a long, until-now secret family recipe for the pie. I’m going to share the recipe with you—don’t tell anyone! You saw it here first, folks.

Step 1:

Go to the store.

Step 2:

Buy a damn pie.

Step 3:

Go home.

Step 4:

Eat pie, possibly with ice cream.

And now that I’ve given away the last of the Roland family secrets, here’s your holiday-appropriate mustache.

 

*She never called the guy who got thrown out trying to hit on her. Shocker, I know.

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One Response to Gobble. Fuckin’. Gobble.

  1. Michelle says:

    This picture is incredible.

    Please continue this blog after the December 1st. I’m not sure how I’m going to keep myself entertained without you writing about your ridiculous shenanigans every day. And then, just imagine what the element of Beer might do to your readership.

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