a post script

incidentally ... how fucking good was dinner on thursday? i mean for serious. damn. i don't know where you had it or who you had it with, but mr nice guy can only feel sorry for you: his repast was better than yours.

indeed, his annual pilgrimage to vermont is the stuff of songs. it shall be celebrated, passed down in the oral tradition, year after year, generation to generation, in the spirit of homer, of virgil, of tupac, of chaucer!

this way to turkey ... and heaven

Vermonterbury Tales

Whan that Novembre with her dark meat thinly cut
The droghte of Octobre hath perced to the gut
And bathed every plate with fluffy stuffing
Of which 'tis not easy to keep from huffing
Whan mother-in-law eek with the sweet meate
Inspired hath in every mouth to eate
The tender yams, and the yonge cranberry
Hath in the Turkey the main course, do not tarry
And the nauseous Wyfe with scant ap'tite
Ensures the Man eats her share this nite
(Mr nice guy rejoices to recall the wedding vow),
Who dons a bib and bellies to the trough
And the pilgrim sets sail on a gravy boat
Grunting through courses like a rutting goat
And specially at the meal's very ende
To the Vermonte table he commands they send
The holy, blissful course of many pies
Which he devoured afore closing his eyes