Just a note to let you know there won’t be the usual Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving greeting this year. Lady Laird and I are camped out on the threshold of the Deptford Mall waiting for the Black Friday sales to begin.
She’s got the list. It’s so top secret even I haven’t been allowed to see it yet. I’m guessing there’s stuff on there about GPS, needle cams, and electronic jamming devices. But my job is to boil the water we’re siphoning from the nearby ladies room faucets. I’m also responsible for preparing the MREs, which is tricky because they’re frankly inedible without the right application of ketchup and French’s brand onion rings. And Raebert, obviously, insists on having his own tent, which he keeps knocking over. Guess whose job it is to put it up again.
So it’s not a holiday here. Hope things are better in your little corner of the world. Maybe you’re one of the ones who can afford a turkey. I really do. We have cranberry jelly. I’m saving it to put on the MREs come Thursday. That’s the day we here at the mall call T Minus One. Other people call it Thanksgiving.
Honey? Honey? Where’s the bag with the bungee cords? Honey?
Where’s she wandered off to now? Damn. Gotta go.
Have a good one.
JUST FOR BARBARA. Not to worry. He ran back home. Apparently, tent life isn’t for him. Poor baby indeed.