It’s Thanksgiving, my favorite day of the year! Why aren’t you cooking?
Because no one is coming this year, Stanley. Alisa and her family are not coming and no friends are coming, too. Bernie had no energy.
You’re not cooking! What—what about the turkey?
Not cooking turkey.
No turkey! What about the giblet gravy?
No gravy, Stanley.
Garlic mashed potatoes?
Forget about it.
OMG! OMG! What will Bernie say?
Bernie’s sleeping upstairs, Stan.
Chestnut apple stuffing?
Pan roasted balsamic onions?
Squash with goat cheese?
Pies? Apple? Pumpkin?
WHAT KIND OF THANKSGIVING IS THIS?
I note you don’t mention salad and Brussell sprouts, Stan.
Never noticed them. What am I going to do with myself all day? I can’t do my practice.
What’s your practice, Stanley?
You know which was my favorite Thanksgiving? Remember when you transferred the turkey from the pan to a big plate and so much of the gravy and small pieces of meat fell on the butcher block table? (BEWARE READERS: IF YOU’RE OBSESSED WITH HYGIENE AND PLAN TO EAT AT OUR HOME IN THE NEAR FUTURE, DO NOT READ FURTHER.) You told Bernie that it was too bad all that stuff didn’t fall on the floor because I can’t get on top of the butcher block table, so without saying anything Bernie put his hands under my belly, picked me right up and put me on the table.
He was stronger then, Stanley.
It took me half an hour to clean that mess up, and when I was done he put me right back on the floor. I never practiced so hard as I did on that Thanksgiving, but it was worth every minute.