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'Twas The Night Of Thanksgiving

The holiday season is a time for excess.

I have sat next to the tree on at least a dozen Christmas Day mornings watching my uber-excited kids tear through SO many gifts that it became simply impossible for them to appreciate a single one... It's an embarrassment of riches swaddled in cheap wrapping paper that my wife and I can't help but provide to them every year.  

Or similarly, I have sat next to that same tree on that same morning watching my infant get more pleasure playing in the box that Barbie's Dream Castle came in than the actual 4-hours-to-build-and-put-on-a-hundred-tiny-fuckin-stickers Dream Castle itself.

We promised ourselves to not repeat that madness this year, but I know the closer we get to December 25th, the bigger each child's pile of loot will become.  Luckily, my kids aren't overly spoiled, but these little bastards manage to maintain their non-coddled demeanors DESPITE our best efforts to the contrary.

-- Now, I say that my kids are "not overly spoiled" only because I see some other kids in my neighborhood, and can say with confidence that both they and their parents SUUUUUUCK.  And anyone reading this who is raising kids in any suburban community knows what I am talking about... And if you don't, then you're the family that SUUUUUCKS. ---

Do you know who I spoil more often than my kids?... My own fat ass.  And there is no better example of that spoilage than what I did to myself yesterday.

I celebrated Thanksgiving with my wife's family this year.  We alternate year-to-year between my family in Brooklyn and hers in Northern NJ.

Truth be told, I would rather be with my kin, but I also appreciate the incredibly small commute that we have on years where we stay local.  That lack of travel allows me to let my metaphorical hair down whilst eating and drinking to excess.

And yesterday, I was on a fucking tear.

Couple of beers, a LOT of red wine, and a 6-hour unapologetic orgy of food.

When it came time for dessert, to everyone's surprise, I uncharacteristically took a pass.  I think most people thought my new-found discipline was a glimpse of some similarly new-found self-restraint, but it was quite the opposite.  I skipped dessert because I knew there was a fresh bakery loaf of marble rye waiting for me at home, and within 5 minutes of leaving, I would be toasting my way to my annual Thanksgiving Night Turkey Sandwich.

So sometime around midnight last night, I decided to relocate the food orgy to my home.  After maybe 10 minutes of construction in the kitchen, I retired to the den, turned on the third hour of The Irishman, and I DEMOLISHED a homemade turkey sandwich that was stacked high with dark meat, stuffing, prime rib, mayo, sweet potato casserole, and a homemade cranberry sauce that I made earlier that afternoon JUST for this motherfucking sandwich.  I washed it down with one final bottle of Beaujolais and then pulled out a no-raisin-containing carrot cake from that same bakery I purchased the rye from... Which I proceeded to also demolish using only a plastic spoon.

It must've been around 1 AM, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.  So I finally pushed myself away from this secondary feast and waddled upstairs.

My liabilities were nestled, all snug in their beds.

While visions of X-Box One Xs danced in their heads. 


And Annie in nothing but a 'kerchief, and I in my backwards baseball cap.

Had just settled down for a long winter's nap.


When down in my bowels there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. 


Away to the bathroom, I flew like a flash.

Tore open the shitter, and exposed my naked and filthy ass.

You see, I fell asleep, and then sometime around 4 AM, I shit myself.

I was gassy and groggy, and when I blasted one off whilst in deep slumber, I woke myself up to an all too familiar and unfortunate 'squishiness' in my boxers.

I had to slide out of bed sideways, so as not to roll on my back and possibly stain my sheets.

I then walked bow-legged to the bathroom like a cowboy that just got off of a bucking bronco.

I had a bowel movement that was nothing short of explosive, and I found a plastic bag with which to tie up my soiled boxers and deposit in the trash can.

I hopped in the shower after I spent a considerable amount of time cleaning the scene of the crime with a toilet brush.

Post-shower, I stood naked in front of my sink, disappointed, exhausted, and about to brush my teeth, when my stomach again acted up and I ran BACK to the toilet and began to vomit uncontrollably.

This whole fiasco wasn't a result of my in-law's cooking.  Nor was it a product of a 'bad shrimp'.  It was simply my body being filled so close to the brim with booze and food that it instinctively decided to hit the EJECT button.

I was dressed all in nothing, from my head to my foot.

And my body was all tarnished with feces and soot. 


A bundle of filth I had flung in the trash. 

And I looked like a meth-head after an all-night bash.


My eyes, how they were bloodshot! 

My dimples, how sunny! 


My ass cheeks like roses!

My nose was still runny! 


My droll little mouth was drawn up like a drunk's. 

And the beard on my chin was covered in chunks. 


I have a broad face and a big ole round belly.

That shook when I yakked, like a bowl full of jelly.


I am chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf.

And I cried just a bit because I fucking hate myself. 


I spoke not a word but went straight to my work.

Cleaned all the bodily fluids, and then turned like a fat jerk. 


I sprang into bed, to my wife gave a whistle.

And away we both slept like the down of a thistle. 


But I heard her exclaim, and not with much force,

"Pull that shit again, and I'll want a divorce." 

Enjoy the rest of your weekend, and take a report.

-Large


This week on BARSTOOLGOLD, I interview rapper/actor TJ Atoms and wrestler Jack Swagger for Welcome on Back and then give some holiday advice on ExtraLarge.