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Dear God:
On this fine Thanksgiving, we pause to remember those less fortunate than us. Those who saturate their bodies with helium and spend a few perilous hours as living floats in the City's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Those who celebrate the season by measuring how much canned cranberry sauce they can stick into their bodily orifices. Those whose testicles Alastair McDookey over at McDookey's Turkey Farm will remove when he catches them attaching battery packs to decapitated turkey bodies to watch them run around. Those who cover their bodies with tinfoil and stand atop buildings for the annual Who Wants To Be A Lightning Rod? competition.
In this election year, we give thanks for our democratic process. Never mind that it almost elected a duck to the senate in Michigan before it was discovered that a pro-avian group had hacked the electronic voting boxes; if that had happened, that duck still would have served her country well. Never mind that three million short people in Florida were disenfranchised when they found themselves unable to reach the screens on voting machines designed by people who found that taller people tend to vote for the incumbent; next time, they'll know to wear taller shoes. Never mind that we leave our national decisions up to a populace of whom a greater percentage watched Sex Puppets XIV: Floofy Does Frankfurt than the debates; I've said for years more people would pay attention to the American political process if the candidates got to ream each other up the ass with vegetables every time someone said the Magic Word.
Never mind that it re-elected a spineless little turd, a drugged-up fratboy who stuffs the extra-jumbo socks down his pants every morning, a pathetic weasel who masturbates over casualty reports while his new Secretary of State spanks him and calls him a bad boy (and I have pictures, God, if You'd like them), the only president who's ever been the victim of an assassination attempt by a pretzel. Never mind that the Opposition Party's alternative needed to be jumped by a car battery before he gave a speech and subsists entirely on the intestines of his grassroots supporters. That's democracy. It's like a sewer. You get out what you put into it. Except with a worse smell. And other peoples' bodily fluids. And other peoples' bodily solids. And the occasional mutant alligator. I had one of those when I was a kid. I named him Rummy. I hear he went on to a very successful career.
We give thanks that there is nothing about the next four years we cannot survive. Not even if they torture us. Not even if they lock our windows and chain our doors and kick the fans from our ceilings and infest our apartments with demons. Not even if they strip us naked and dangle our bodies provocatively over M Street. Not even if they flood all the television channels with CSI: Special Victims Jerk-Off Tissue Disposal Unit twenty-four hours a day. We give thanks that they cannot take our voices, cannot take our teeth, and -- most importantly -- cannot take our bowel disruptors. After all, do not the scriptures tell us exactly how much You want to see the President shit himself on international television?
So God, this year, I give thanks for many things, but particularly -- last but not least -- the knowledge that neither of my filthy assistants will ever be brain-damaged enough to ask me to say Grace again.
And bless this food. Or something.
Amen.