Monday, November 29, 2010



Got to do it, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


On Thanksgiving, did you see those Detroit Lions throwback uniforms? They were uglier than Camilla Parker Bowles standing next to Kate Middleton.

They were uglier than a Thanksgiving touch football game between Adam Lambert’s backup dancers and singers.

Did you see the Detroit Lions throwback uniforms on Thanksgiving? They looked like the practice uniforms of Our Sisters of the Broke-Asses Catholic high school.

On Thanksgiving, Kid Rock performed well at halftime of the Patriots-Lions game; although, I have to say, Kid Rock looks almost nothing like his father, Duane Johnson, the Rock.

Thanksgiving can be tough. There’s arguing, crying, screaming, and drunks getting in a fight. And that’s just in the Detroit Lion’s locker room after the game.

My Thanksgiving was nice. I was sticking my hand deep inside the turkey cavity to remove the giblets, when I couldn’t help think how happy I was to not have to go through an airport TSA search this holiday.

In France, a woman was trapped in a bathroom for 20 days; she lived on tap water surviving without food for almost three weeks. No word on why she didn’t shower for three weeks.

To keep children from buying American Barbies, Iran has come out with its own version. It’s called: Jihad Josephine.

Since you asked:
There wasn’t one NFL player who got hit as hard as I did this week when I read about the incredible Jill Costello, (“The Courage of Jill Costello” by Chris Ballard, “Sports Illustrated”) the coxswain for the Cal women’s crew team.

Apparently Jill was the kind of girl, a tiny little thing, who, if someone was having a bad day, would pull out her little ears, puff up her cheeks, cross her bright eyes until she monkey-faced them into laughing.

She was a take charge gal whose most often used words as a toddler were “Me do.” When told she had cancer she brushed off the upcoming fight by saying she had survived a 60 Kappa sorority girl attack on study snacks during finals.

She was the kind of girl who, when her illness developed, only worried about its effect on her teammates. She was the kind of girl who bought a white fur ball little Maltese puppy – and named it Jack, of course – so that, if she passed, her boyfriend and family would have something of hers to hold when she was gone.

She was the kind of woman who, like my Mom, makes me cry when I hear James Taylor’s “You Can Close Your Eyes.”

So close your eyes
You can close your eyes, it’s all right
I don’t know no love songs
And I can’t play the blues anymore
But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song
When I’m gone