Pope Still A Queen; Tries To Ruin THKSGVNG

 

So. I’m not feeling very much of the Thanksgiving spirit. With the bad economy, all but one of our business enterprises is in a down year for sales. The only thing that’s up is Dixie Johnson Limited, L.L.C. That’s the umbrella company that handles my dog’s career. Dixie won a European Grammy award for an album she made to help rice farmers improve their crop performance last year, and the boost record sales got from the award boosted profits for us.

But everything else is down, business wise. I know that work stuff isn’t the most important thing in life, but for us, the work stuff is more than just work. Lower sales means lower profits and that means lower bonus pools for employees. As a staunch believer that employees are any business’ most valuable asset, this stinking economy has punished my employees in a very unwarranted way.

Then there is the hidden downside of a bad economy. Like many businesses, Johnson Family Enterprises, and all of our affiliated companies, donate a percentage of our gross profits to various charities and research groups. In bad times like these, the less fortunate suffer even more misfortune. It’s heartbreaking.

And the Pope. Let me see if I can get this straight. It might be OK for a male prostitute to use a condom to prevent the spread of AIDS, but it’s still not OK to use condoms for birth control. Did I get that right?

That silly bastard is more concerned about protecting priests from getting infected by their boyfriends than he is for the masses of followers who blindly obey his silly edicts.

And the debate surrounding this potentially life-changing announcement is comical. One side says, “This is a monumental shift in policy that will have far-reaching benefits to Catholics everywhere.”

The other side says, “This is a cataclysmic shift in policy that will bring the Apocalypse.”

Personally, I think the Public Relations Department over there to the Vatican has been working overtime to think of something to help mitigate damage on the priest rapist issue. In an effort to avoid taking full responsibility for the raping of their followers, they throw a bone in sheep’s clothing into the public arena.

OK, maybe that metaphor was a bit remote to be effective. A reference to a stiff pecker cloaked in a sheep intestine condom used as a Trojan horse might require a brain as fucked-up as mine to follow.

Anyway, fuck the Pope, and fuck anyone who thinks the Pope is special.

I do like his dresses though. Both his and the other Queen, Elizabeth. Those two kids don’t know what a smock even looks like. I still remain convinced that they are twins that were secretly separated at birth. From the look of things, their tailors were twins as well.

Anyway, I’ve got to get my head straight before morning because I’m cooking for the fifty, or so, that always manage to wander their way to our Thanksgiving dinner. This year I’m doing the Cajun deep fried poultry thing, featuring turkey, but frying ducks and a goose as well. We always start festivities early in the morning, when I fire up the grill and smoke sausages and quail and venison outside, and Mother and Gram make pancakes in the kitchen.

This year will be special because SAC Ellen is making her family secret recipe French Toast. When Streaker Jone heard about the toast, he flew up to Vermont and brought back a barrel of fresh maple syrup.

“I like tha one what comes from trees livin onna Canadian border, Mooner. Got better balance.”

I think Streaker Jones is right about that since he’s always right about everything. I used it to make a maple syrup basting glaze for the smoked meats that is, as Gram likes to say, “Worth killin fer.”

When I told her the expression is, “To die for,” she told me, and not too kindly, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner? Iffn you don’t skedaddle from my kitchen I’m gonna kick yer scrawny butt.”

Which brings on another holiday puzzler. What am I going to do about Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry? How can I make room at the table for my pig and ostrich yet hide them from Gram?

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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