Hi! Look at Me: I'm Thankful!

Lots of people wait until November 25th or until they've been hit by a bus to talk about being thankful. So, this morning, March 1st, 2010, I thought: shit-- why can't I talk about what I'm thankful for today? I mean, it's my blog, right? Right. So, off we go!

I'm thankful....

* that it's not Christmastime.

Because nothing makes you want to shotgun your face off more than walking through Marshalls while Christmas music is simmering through your cerebral cortex. I think "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime" might be the worst song ever written, outside of the theme music for "The Lawrence Welk Show" and "The Quicker Pickerupper" jingle. Between the awful, piped, canned music, the incessant advertising, societal pressure, and the "He-wished-me-merry-Christmas-but-I'm-Jewish-so-I'm-offended" horseshit, Christmastime serious makes me want to damage my face with a penknife or high-powered semiautomatic weapon.

* that it's not election time.

As far as I know, no federal, state, or local campaigns are going on right about now, and I think that's just fantastic. Outside of Christmastime commercials, there's no advertising more obnoxious than political ads and, during election season, we are perpetually ass-fingered with ads for liver-spotted white, Protestant men in ill-fitting suits with red or blue striped ties (depending on party affliliation) throwing babies and shaking hands with snowballs. On Saturday night, I actually had a fight with my mother-in-law who is convinced that Bill Clinton isn't as big a scumbag as John Edwards, because Clinton just ejaculated on Monica Lewinsky's dress and cigar-banged her, but he didn't impregnate her while his wife had cancer. "Yeah," I said, "but they both broke their marriage vows, and they're both disgusting pigs," I said, "one of them just happened to pay attention in 7th grade health class and the other didn't." She was not amused. And I hate politicians.

* that it's not snowing.

Because I've had just about enough of that shit. If any more of that comes our way this winter, I might have to pop a cap in some snowman's ass.

* that my wife doesn't have F.G.S.

You brothas know what I'm talking about (actually-- do any men read my blog?). F.G.S. = Fat Girl Smell. My father, the Israeli, calls it "ovesch," and it's a term utilized to describe the funk that emanates from certain women who are obese and who retain certain curds and/or other byproducts in folds under their underarms, under their breasts, or in their scalp folds, thus producing F.G.S.

Mrs. Apron is neither fat, nor does she produce F.G.S., and I'm very thankful for that. I once went on a blind date with a girl who produced the dreaded odor, and I was crestfallen. On her online profile, she professed to be "more fun than a barrel of monkeys" but, unfortunately, a barrel of monkeys is what she smelled like.

* that we did not bring Knucklehead, the crazed, homosexual beagle home.

While my dog would have benefitted (?) by getting his cock sucked on an incessant basis, that dog would have turned our home on its roof and our lives on its ass. We would not have survived that neurotic, spastic, fruitty-assed dog. Quite plainly, it would have buried us, and, after a sufficient period of mourning, would have dutifully returned to vacuuming our dog's dick.

* that I do not have cancer.

At least, not that I know of. You know-- how do I know for sure, right?

* that my penis works.

It's not something you really think about until it's broken, but my penis does what it's supposed to do, by and large, and I'm pretty thankful for that. I think there are people who think it's vulgar to thank God for their penis, but I don't. I mean, he gave it to me. It's supposedly an agent to make babies (Jewish ones at that!) and so I don't feel awkward about it at all. I mean, it'll never be a movie star or anything, but it's fully functional if not aesthetically winning. So, thanks, God. My dick's what's up. Or... er...

* for my car.

As most of you know, I drive a 2001 Chrysler PT Cruiser with 78,400 miles on the odometer. It has a big dent by the right passenger's door that has rusted, there are scratches all over the trunk, roof, and now the front windshield courtesy of enthusiastic snow scraping from the last blizzard, it's underpowered, gets terrible gas mileage, and has the turning radius of a triceratops on lithium, but it's completely paid off, and it's mine. I can do whatever I want to it. I can paint it purple with black polkadots if I get the itch. I can race it at Soap Box Derby Day or paint flames on it or cover the floor in red shag carpeting. Maybe one day I'll dump it in a fucking swamp in Bud Lake, New Jersey and try to claim the insurance on it. They'll probably mail me a check for $307.21. Hello, VW Beetle down-payment!

* that I still get zits sometimes.

Whenever I look at my burgeoning crow's feet or my gray hairs in the mirror, I'm actually comforted by the fact that they're sometimes complemented by a pimple, usually on my temples, where I constantly rub my fingers in exasperation, usually at work. I'm still young, goddamnit. And I've got the little pesky pustules to prove it.

This concludes my thankfuls for March 1, 2010.

Thanks.