For many, Thanksgiving is a time of tradition. The stuffing, the turkey, the various deserts, the family squabbles, the big pile of coats on the bed. These are things that make the Thanksgiving holiday a family tradition in which we are grateful and give thanks to our many blessings. You know what I’m grateful for? I’m grateful for the soap that I’ll be rubbing all over my naked body later this morning. I’m also grateful for towels and fresh pair of underpants. I’m grateful for the prospect of being two hours away from feeling springtime fresh rather than smelling like a loaded cat box combined with stench of rotten meat and expired dairy products.
You see folks…I stink. And while most of you are not here at the Hall of Fame to partake in my wafting emination, my malodorous trail of wafting bouquet, the revolting transmittance of my detestable essence. Trust me. It would burn your eyes out. I smell so bad that even Kevin Spacey would play hard to get. I smell like a package of rancid pork chops that have been left out in a hot pile of barn yard compost. I stink so badly that is smells like you’ve pulled all of my fingers! If you dropped a box full of Steak-Ums in my pants they’d be overdone in 30 seconds with real beefy dipping sauce. I’m growing barnacles over here. I smell like the dumpster at Shermerhorns! I’m so nasty that if I spread my butt cheeks it would look like somebody pulled apart a grilled cheese sandwich.
I’m sitting around in swirling fondue so deeply nestled in my pants that it would choke out a colony of grubs and maggots. There are employees at Bondi’s Island wishing they’d bring the stink back. The only difference between me and bucket of human waste is
the bucket. Having said that, don’t let any of this prevent you from donating to the Mayflower Marathon in the final hours. Just hold your breath and everybody can walk out of here safely! You’ll be glad that you did!