One day we all might need the aid of a walker and with any luck mine will have lightning bolts and racing stripes painted on it.
I usually leave town this time of year and head for my father's house to feast in honor of that time the pilgrims raped and pillaged the Native Americans after inviting them to feed from their tainted dark turkey meat and cornucopia of hate. This Thanksgiving, however, I'm staying in the city to have dinner with my mom's side of the family, including my 90-year-old grandmother Rose and her 94-year-old boyfriend Jesse. Originally, dining was slated for 2:15, but then my mom called and said, "Change of plans. Dinner is now at 2:30, not 2:15." Another member of my family, who shall remain nameless, said to me, "That must mean Jesse's not using his walker." And then we laughed. And then we said how bad a thing that was to say and to laugh about. And then we laughed some more. And then we burned in hell even more than we already figured we would.
