The Scout Chronicles: I Took it in the Ass on Thanksgiving Day

Get that fucking camera out of my face asshole! You wouldn’t be smiling either if you got rail-roaded like I did on “Turkey Day”. More like “Same ‘Ol Dried Hippie Dog Food Bullshit Day” for the Scoutmeister. The day started with promise. There were a ton of people in grandma’s house for reasons which were at the time unbeknownst to me. I had no clue, maybe everyone had just been to the groomer and were gathered at the human park to show off the new cuts? Dad turns on the TV and boom, it hits me. Football on Thursday afternoon = Thanksgiving. So now I’m pretty fired up, running around the joint, shaking my ass, jumping on the younger cousins, getting a lot of attention from great grandpa. He thinks I’m the bomb because I’m pretty emotionally uncomplicated. He had just gotten a tongue-lashing from great grandma because he was “drinking too fast”. Like chill out great grandma. He is 80, fought the North Koreans and commie Chinese in the Korean Conflict, fathered 5 kids and worked for 40 years. If he wants to put on some liquor on Thanksgiving and pass out in the recliner, I think he’s earned it. Anyway I’m pretty fucking stoked because I’ve been requesting Turducken for the better part of 3 weeks now. I heard John Madden talking about it and using the diagram he drew up on TV, I Google-searched it and that shit is right in my wheel-house. You take a duck, stuff it into a chicken, then stuff both those pigs into a turkey: Yes please. I also saw in the Google side-bar that sweet potatoes are a common part of this Thanksgiving fad. Fucking BOOYAH! Anyone who knows the Scoutmeister knows one thing: He fucking crushes sweet potatoes. Although I’m particularly fond of the Farmer’s Market brand of dried sweet potato treat for dogs, I do not look a gift sweet potato in the mouth. So if they’re slathering those fuckers in butter and brown sugar, I’m still a taker. Everything goes quiet at one point and everyone looks at the floor and starts muttering some horse manure about a son and his holy ghost or father or something. I have no clue so I just bowed my own head and barked very quietly. If I know one thing its that when something is about to be awesome, if I get too fired up I’m usually in the hurt locker. The scent of turducken is strong and I’m not about to fuck this up. Everyone scratches their forehead, their stomach, and then each shoulder in rapid succession, perhaps due to fleas, and then queues up on the feast that sits on the counter. Fucking game time. I see the big boys towards the back of the queue and I start to worry that I’m going to get shut out if I play the polite card. So I nudge in between Mom and some lady behind her that I’ve never seen and throw two paws on the counter and start sniffing the goods. Apparently this is a faux pas because mom growls out some “Scout, down!” bullshit. Its cool, I’ll wait. Calm your shit down mom, not a life-or-death sitch here. To my astonishment that is followed by dad giving the dreaded “Scout, come!” command from the garage door vicinity. I peek around the corner and see that he has my food dish in his hand, and I know that all is well. He apparently filled it with turducken and sweet potato casserole while I wasn’t looking. So I follow him to my aunt Cora’s kennel in the garage. She is a big, brutal mastiff bitch. But a sweet gal who usually lets me do whatever the fuck I want. So I hops in the kennel, down comes the bowl of hot awesomeness, I stick my muzzle in it, and bam, pie right in Scout’s face. Same fucking dried dog food horseshit that I eat every goddamned day. Mom and dad buy it from the hippie dog food store because they are dumbass liberals and apparently like paying extra money for shit that sucks. Of all the kicks in balls that I’ve ever gotten, this might be the tops. I started screaming at dad as he walked toward the garage door, “Hey dad, go fuck yourself! I hope you choke on a turducken bone asshole!” Unfortunately all that seemed to come out of my muzzle was this really pussified high-pitched crying noise. In my mind I was chomped down on his jugular vein fucking growling like a pit bull dog octagon grand champion. But in reality I was crying like a little bitch.
Scout’s Thanksgiving started with such high hopes. But like the Native Americans before me (whom I also read about in the Google side bar on my Turducken search), all I got for my efforts was bent over and fucked. After mom let me out of the kennel I went straight to the front door to take a dump so that the first person to go to their car stepped right in it. But all I could muster was a really weak fart. My mother told me there’d be days like this.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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