Thanksgiving: paying homage to another wonderful tradition

So in 1692 or so, about sixty centuries after the advent of the universe, which in turn transpired several thousand years after humans began to domesticate wolves and call them dogs, a bunch of Norsemen known as Pilgrims set sail from the Barbary coast in search of riches in the Tibetian highlands, nominally under the control of Barry Goldwater at the time. They arrived just south of Logan Airport in three ships, all under the control of Capt. Magellan Marco Mayflower (whose heirs founded the company that now makes “Post-Its”), called the Nina Titanic, the Pinta Andrea Doria, and the Santa Enola Gay. This was an ambitious and spectacularly doomed mission, for when the Pilgrims has been ashore for a scant forty days and forty fortnights a huge flood borne on a wave of holy malevolence descended on the region, and under the tutelage of Weather Channel hurricane spokesman Joe Bastardi launched the Pilgrim’s canoes in a westward direction. Despite having only a limited supply of Power Bars and Lean Cuisine microwaveable dinners available, the Pilgrims negotiated a treacherous if temporary inland sea all the way to the foothills of the nearest meaningful mountain range, where their craft came to a crashing halt against the second Flatiron in the Foothills of what is now known as the Front Range. Hence was founded the town of Plymouth Rock, later shortened to Plymouth Boulder and then simply Boulder, a fact verifiable by watching re-runs of Mork & Mindy and by consulting my modern-day girlfriend, who graduated from Fairview High School in the same class as Sheryl Lee of Twin Peaks fame, not that anyone ever saw the budding actress on campus. Here, the Pilgrims set about establishing a state university, one of the first in the nation that was still 100 years or so from being officially hatched, with the overarching goal of having shitty football teams. Soon the Pilgrims became disdainful of everyone and everything and instituted a town-wide policy of mandatory pot-smoking, an ethos that soon proved incompatible with the citizenry’s burgeoning desire for endurance sports, holistic medicine and organic food that cost three times as much as similarly nourishing comestibles in other parts of America. So eventually the townspeople e-mailed New Amsterdam and said “Fcuk this; you people are cocks, and we’re not going to do things your way” and built a Wal-Mart in nearby Longmont, which also gave rise to one of the first private methamphetamine dealerships in the New World. Anyway, it wasn’t long before everyone outside of Colorado was struggling with excess weight, or to be more accurate not struggling in any way with maintaining a weight far in excess of that suggested by God back in the day, fundamentalist Christians excluded. So God created Thanksgiving so that Boulderites could find a 368th reason to look down their noses at everyone else, because when you think about it setting aside a day for Americans to overeat and be proud of it while pretending to be appreciative of the truly hungry is rather like a day designated specifically for residents of Honolulu to revere tourists and sand. And so it was written, and it was awesome.

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