Thankgiving? For What, May I Ask?

This year, obvisously, we do not have much too be thankful for. With the chimp in the Whire House and the world at war, their is to much agatation and chaos about for us to be thankful for any thing. To be thankful in a world like this would actully be a kind of secular blasfemy. To be thankful woud be a gob of spit in the face of humanity, a urination of the front porch of goodness itself.

No, I choose not to be thankful, for it is in choosing that I be come fully human.

I choose not to celebrate this quintassential quagmire of american Halledays, this blasfemy of pilgrim's. This quaff of capatalistic capriciousness, this colloquial culinary collission of country comforts. This Bush-leage, bastion, of evangelicle bastard baby-making, bile-bursting, bowling-bumkin, abominations.

No, this year I will not join in with the zero zen of zionist, zircon-wearin', zenofobic, zone of Exon spillin', zephyr-fartin', zoo-o-plankton-killin', zepplin-listenin', zenith-tv-watchin', Zefaniah quotin', zinfendel-slurpin', zinger-tellin', zinnia plantin', zilch creatin', zillonaire worhipin', zippy, zappy, zygoat zombie's of zeal.

I say, if any one would the sense to ask me, we should re name the Halleday, in the name of Bushitler the Chimp in cheif:

Cursegiving.