November 24, 2014

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As I carve into the turkey before my enthralled and worshipful guests, I’m not exactly grinning from ear to ear that I live in a world where the IRS is all-powerful and my vote means nothing and the government snoops on everyone and there’s nothing I can do about it. I see no reason to be happy that America is headed for financial ruin and a dark age of demographic conflict that may render useless any job skill except those involving hand-to-hand combat.

It doesn”€™t massage my perineum with a feather duster to see modern feminism metastasizing into an insane Bitchy Goddess Cult complete with lesbian unicorns and penis-eating Venus Fly Traps, nor that many modern women seem to exult in the daft idea that acting like an unreasonable three-year-old will ultimately prove beneficial to male-female relations. I realize you girls are depressed, but you need to calm the hell down. I”€™m aware that many of you modern dames are on antidepressants, so in the best interests of both of us, I”€™d suggest maybe throwing some right powerful tranquilizers into the mix, too.

It doesn”€™t tickle my gizzard to observe that in almost every way”€”whether measurable, perceptible, instinctual, theoretical, or even metaphysical”€”young white males today are tremendous pussies compared to their burly, world-conquering forebears. You”€™ve seen these guys”€”the little beard and the little glasses and the little smirk and the little sweater covering their little shoulders”€”they never quite grow up, do they? They exist as deformed tadpoles rather than full-grown, vibrantly belching bullfrogs. For both comedic and dramatic purposes, white-male machismo needs to make a serious comeback. That would make me thankful.

It doesn”€™t warm my electric blanket when I ponder that even though I”€™m currently living on a farm, if financial collapse and civil unrest were to crash The Grid and force me to provide my own Thanksgiving dinner next year by raising turkeys and farming vegetables with my own callused and veiny hands”€”while fighting relentless predatory incursions by whomever the modern version of Indians turns out to be”€”I question whether I”€™d be up to the task.

As I assume the case is with most people, I am grudgingly thankful for what I have and inwardly resentful for what I don”€™t. If admitting this is as far as most of us can go this Thanksgiving, that’s not half-bad.


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