Well ladies and gentlemen, it’s Thanksgiving, 2024 and you know what that means.

Yours truly is committing acts of bloggery on a weekday morning.

It should also be noted that the desk space in front of me isn’t adorned with an Everything bagel that’s been lovingly slathered with two different flavors of cream cheese.  Instead, I have a biscuit with some bacon at hand.

The grandkid and his parents are in town, so Wifey didn’t leave me to my own devices for breakfast this morning.

Of course, Mag-B the SLab sits at my left trying to convince me to share.

We stopped giving her human food earlier this year when we had the epiphany that her digestive system was just too ill-equipped to process anything but kibble without creating some colonic mischief.

It’s like giving a can of low-grade chili to a toddler.

Granted, all canned chili is low-grade.

I just re-learned earlier this morning that it was Abraham Lincoln who suggested late November for celebration of Thanksgiving.  I’ve got to wonder if he had the foresight back then to consider the proximity of such an event with recent elections and whether that was a good idea.

Speaking of which, we’ll be visiting family this afternoon to feast on a recently deceased turkey.  I’ve given to understand it was dropped out of a helicopter as some marketing ploy.

Irregardlessly, I’m guessing the discussion of the election will come up today.

To wit, I’ll make some comment that will trigger cognitive dissonance in others.  The aforementioned ‘others’ will then pull my wife aside and use a colloquial vernacular to ask why I have to be so rude.

I’ve noticed that people who are afflicted with a resting NPR face or crazed MSNBC eyes interpret all of my statements of fact as being rude.

But Thanksgiving talk is just the opening salvo to this post and not the intended subject matter.

If you’ll stand by for a few, I need to take the puppy dog out for a walk so that she can activate her own little Play-Doh Fun Factory which produces something more solid than a can of low grade chili.  Once I get back, I’ll discuss a trip I took last week to Houston.

Okay I’m back.

The following is designed to suck precious moments from your life.  I’ll let you make the decision on whether you have enough of those moments in reserve to be subjected by yet another time wasting story from your favorite Blogger Laureate.

This last weekend we exceeded the boundaries of our own little bubble (aka San Antonio) to make a trip to Houston.

That’s the one in Texas, not British Columbia.

The drive into Houston was fraught with tailgating, lane weaving, and other blood pressure elevating  activities. 

Once we got checked into the hotel, I took over the driving responsibilities so that we could go find some place to eat.  The eatery we selected was pretty tricky to find because staff hadn’t turned on their outside lights to signal to motorists and other drivers-by that they were open for business.  Fortunately, there was an ambulance outside with its lights on to help guide us in. 

The mere fact that they were wheeling out a patron on a gurney as we arrived had nothing to do with whether it was safe to eat there. 

Okay there’s an outside chance that it did, but we were too hungry to care. 

Fortunately we left on our own accord without the assistance of a crew of paramedics and other first-responders.

Afterward, we went to the Bass Pro Shop next door to the hotel to walk off dinner and price small firearms.

It’s completely understandable if you’ve gotten bored.  The excitement didn’t start until bedtime. 

Sleep came pretty quickly that night.

As the random eye movements started to kick in, I could hear noises out in the hall of the hotel.  For all I knew, the giggling and other loud chatter was all part of a dream.

The aural assault went on for a few minutes and then a new voice was introduced into the mix.

“Hey! We paid good money for a quiet place to sleep and you’re ruining it!  GO FLY A KITE!”  The admonishment was then accented by the sound of a slamming door.

It should be noted that the lady who admonished the pre-teen girls who were doing gymnastics in the hallway at the Holiday Inn Express that night did not tell them in all capital letters to go fly a kite.  She told them to be quiet in a certain colloquial vernacular which gets thrown in my direction when I make discussion-halting statements of fact at family get-togethers. 

Such language does not get afforded space here on TharpSter.org.

As the chatter and other yelling concluded, I didn’t really have the cognitive function at that point to determine if all of that happened inside, or outside of my head.  All I knew was that there was a repressed feeling in my subconscious which needed to be addressed.  The alternative was that someone out there in real life was really ticked off about pre-teens interrupting her slumber.

I went back to sleep, oblivious to whatever else was going on inside or outside of my head.

The next morning came about 6 or 7 hours later.  Wifey was asleep when I woke up, so I made my way to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Once I was all cleaned up and dressed, I came out of the bathroom to find that Wifey was now awake and getting dressed.

“Good morning.”  I said.

“Did you hear me yelling at those girls last night?”

On the plus side, I didn’t have any repressed feelings to address. 

On the other hand, I would need to find another place to practice my cartwheels and round-offs later on.