Private: Bobby Dean
A Random Wednesday in November
I hate grocery shopping.
I know, I know, shock. Gasp. Absolute disbelief. Everything you thought you knew about me has been tossed out the window. You probably feel sullied, need a moment to recalibrate your brain. But it’s true. It’s one of the things I hate the most in life.
Grocery shopping. Putting a belt on after I had already put my pants on. Tying my shoes. Small toilets. Not small as in tiny toilet seats, but small as in close to the ground. I mean, if I have to do a deep squat just to sit, it’s too damn low. Pooping is an exercise in itself, I don’t need a pre-workout before game time, if you will.
Where was I? Oh yeah, grocery shopping. I hate it. Why? Because you’re in the garden of Eden surrounded by delicious temptations. Cancer Jiles sends me to the store for a carton of eggs and I’ve got to walk by an aisle full of chips, cookies, and candy to get to the refrigerated section of the store. I’m a weak man, with a weak heart… Actually, no, my heart is surprisingly strong. Surprising considering how bad my diabetes is.
So here I am, walking through the aisles of the local grocery store, surrounded by an unusually large crowd, pushing a cart in front of me with one hand, and pulling a second cart behind me with the other. It’s a difficult trek but after three hours of the world’s best scavenger hunt I finally make my way to the checkout.
I marvel at the cart full of deliciousness being unloaded by a harried looking man in front of me as he continues to unload his trove on the conveyor belt before him. I catch his eye as he looks at my equally impressive haul.
“Thanksgiving, am I right?” the guy says with a mirthless chuckle as if he’s have an absolute nightmare of a day.
Wait, what did he just say?
“Wait, what?” I repeat out loud this time. “What did you just say?”
He looks at me like so many others have looked at me, as if to say, “why, aren’t you just a special boy.” But the looks fades as he realizes I’m 100% serious right now, asking him to repeat what he said.
“Thanksgiving?” He questioningly states.
It couldn’t be.
I quickly fish out my phone and with a few swipes of my fat fingers I manage to pull up the calendar app.
“Son of a bitch!” I bellow out in rage, causing the curious guy in front of me to take a step back, wearily looking around as if to question his safety near such a volatile person. I look up suddenly, causing him to take yet another step back. “It’s the day before Thanksgiving!”
“Yeah? I know.” the man answers, again, with that tone of voice that makes me sound like I’m not all there.
“Sorry, I’ve been going through some stuff.” I answer his unasked question. “It hasn’t been pretty.
~ ~ ~
Let’s try this again…
Wednesday, the Day Before the Greatest Holiday in the World (for fat people) aka Thanksgiving
I LOVE SHOPPING!
It’s like going to the Brazzers website and watching the trailers of the recently uploaded videos. You can watch all the good bits without having to pay an absurd amount of money! I get to walk through aisle after aisle imagining all the food I’m going to eat the next day, before I wind up in a four hour food coma.
Stuffing, sweet potatoes covered in marshmallows, green bean casserole, corn casserole, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, mashed potatoes mixed with melted cheese and horseradish, deviled eggs, honey glazed ham, deep fried turkey, some sort of cranberry dish that I never eat, pecan pie, apple pie, pumpkin pie, masquerade salad (don’t worry it’s not actually a salad. It’s made of cool whip, fruits, and covered in crumbled cookies.)
I. CANNOT. WAIT.
~ ~ ~
The Greatest Day of the Year! Thanksgiving Day! OH BOY!
I find myself seated before a table full of food. 5 empty chairs surround me. It’s not surprising that I’d be the first to arrive, I mean, I am the one that celebrates this holiday the hardest. But time is slowly ticking away.
I glance over at the clock hanging on the far wall, then shift my eyes towards the smorgasbord of food laid before me, hungrily licking my lips as I remember that I skipped dinner the night before, then breakfast this morning, and my mid morning snack just to make as much room as possible for this grand meal.
My eyes shift back to the clock on the wall.
I know Cancer likes to be fashionably late, but I’m surprised Doozer is running behind. I begin to wonder if I gave my handwritten invitations to the wrong people? Or perhaps I put the wrong time? Maybe the wrong date?
Suddenly the door to the rented conference room opens up and a smile erupts on my face, as I turn around to see which of my friends have arrived.
“Uhm, excuse me?” a nameless face peeks his head into the room, unsure of what to say as he takes in a single man seated before a table full of food, and five empty chairs.
“It’s okay, my friends, they’re on their way down now. It’ll just be another minute or so.” I answer with a cheery smile on my face.
“I’m really sorry sir, but your time is up… We’ve got to get this room cleared out for the next reservation,” my smile falters, and slowly turns into a frown as I realize it’s been three hours already.
“Oh, okay.” I answer, at a complete loss for words.
~ ~ ~
The Saddest Holiday of the Year, Thanksgiving
I stand before the closed door, banging my fist repeatedly against the wood, hard enough to hear the jamb rattle.
“I know you’re in there, I can hear you snickering!” I bellow out in mindless rage. “Open the damn door Jiles!”
“Housekeeping!” the familiar, yet muffled voice of Cancer Jiles calls out from the other side. “Él no está aquí,” I don’t know what he’s said, but I have a feeling it’s not an apology. “Vete culo gordo.”
I continue to simply stand there banging on the door for another twenty minutes, knowing that five minutes into it Cancer had enough and walked further in the room. Judging by the escalated volumes of his television it appears Cancer Jiles was watching the Dallas Cowboys take on the New York Giants.
“Get out here!” I continue to bellow, intermixed with some fist pounding.
~ ~ ~
I burst into the eGG Den moments later, breathing heavily from walking from the elevator, and pounding on a door for thirty-five minutes. “Hey Dad!” the voice of Annabelle Dean calls out from the couch, drawing my eye, as she and Uncle Dooze are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, with two near empty boxes of pizza between them. Dooze is sprawled out, as if he’s moment away from falling asleep as he watches Dak Prescott throw another homerun.
Or whatever football people do.
My kid lazily looks up at me as I approach, with a sneer on my face. “What’s up with the face?”
“Where the hell have you two been?” I snarl.
“Uncle Freddy and I went down to watch the parade, then grabbed some pizza on the way back,” Annabelle throws herself back into the couch, getting comfortable, turning her attention back to the game at hand. “I think there might be a slice or two left, if you’re hungry?”
“Why the heck didn’t you two come to my dinner?” I ask, with real heat in my voice.
“You know I hate Thanksgiving, Pop.” Little Belle answers, as if I should know this. It’s almost as if she’s told me this a million times, and I simply refused to listen to her, because WHO DOESN’T LOVE THANKSGIVING!
“WHAT!? No you don’t, you love it!” I answer back, completely ignoring her protests.
“I hate it, I mean, we’re supposed to get together with family only to sit around for four hours before the food is even ready to eat. Then we’re supposed to tell everyone why we’re thankful? What if I’m not thankful? I mean, what is there to be thankful for? A mom who would rather be off with her new husband than spend time with her daughter? Or a father who would rather shove his hand up a turkey’s asshole, than to listen when I tell him how much I hate the taste of turkey? Seriously, it’s so dry, and the little flavor it does have, tastes like ass.”
“Eat much ass, kid?” Doozer asks, before he and Annabelle chuckle like teenagers.
“I figure, you could enjoy eating with Uncle Cancer, Miss Troy, and Cardboard Dan Ryan, you didn’t need me,” she finishes in a tone that signified that she was done with this conversation.
Turning my attention to her neighbor I call out, “And you? Why didn’t you show up Doozey?”
“Fred.” Dooze says simply, without bothering to look at me.
“I said, it’s Fred.” Dooze reiterates, finally looking up at me with cold, dead eyes. “How are other people going to sell the gimmick change if my own friend and tag team partner won’t sell it, huh?”
“Come on, Dooz, I mean Tread, don’t be like this.” I beg, holding my hands out imploringly to my friend.
“It’s Fred!” Annabelle and Dooze call out simultaneously.
“Listen, Bobby, maybe you should just go on and go enjoy Thanksgiving. Belle can hang out here with her Uncle Fred, and we won’t suck the fun out of your favorite holiday.” Fred reasons before turning his attention back to the football game.
“Yeah, what better way to spend a holiday meant for family than to walk aimlessly throughout a casino…” I answer with a small tear pooling in the corner of my eye.
“That’s the spirit.” Fred says deadpan, obviously no longer paying attention to me whatsoever.
I simply turn around and head out the door.
~ ~ ~
“Well, well, well,” I mutter out as I saunter up to the next culprit. “What do you have to say for yourself? Did you change your name? Forget how to speak English too? Huh? Well, are you going to say ANYTHING?”
Cardboard Dan Ryan simply stands there, staring blankly ahead, so ashamed he won’t even look me in the eye. Refusing to say a word. Typical.
~ ~ ~
The Groundhog Day of Thanksgiving, in that it won’t fucking end…
I’m at a complete loss. Wandering aimlessly around the MGM Grand Casino, surrounded by bright lights, annoying sounds, and heathens who would rather be losing their money than spending time with friends and family. Perfect place for me, seeing as how I no longer have any friends, or family to spend time with.
I don’t know how my aimless wandering brought me back to the conference room where my Thanksgiving feast was to be held, but here I am, walking by the open door. The sounds of merriment can be heard two halls over, but as I approach the open door I cannot help but stand there flabbergasted.
Lindsay Troy, the eGG Queen, was hosting a PRIME Thanksgiving dinner. She was toasting the room full of people, with a glass of wine in hand, and a hearty laugh bubbling forth.
Too busy to RSVP for my dinner it would seem…
I suppose my oversized shadow stood out, because her and I just so happen to lock eyes. There is no solace in her visage, no warmth, no apologetic look. She simply looks at me, then shifts her sight to someone else within the room and offers a simple nod.
Next thing I know, Melvin Beauregard is in the doorway smiling warmly at me, probably moments away from inviting me in for the fun, when suddenly the door slowly closes. His hand inconspicuously pushing the door shut, as if he didn’t want me to see it was him doing it.
“I fucking hate Thanksgiving.” I mutter as I go back to my wandering aimlessly to wallow in my self pity.
~ ~ ~
The Day After…
After following the grotesquely obese Bobby Dean around for so long, it’s time for a much needed perspective change. As we all know, too much Bobby Dean is not good for ones health. So how about we shift on over to the Greatest SCOTT known to man, Great SCOTT, of course.
He stands just outside Fashion Show Las Vegas, the third best mall according to Trip Advisor, and he is backlit by a massive crowd of people, eager to shop.
GREAT SCOTT: I DON’T LIKE WEATHER VANES…
Suddenly a shrill whistle sounds, causing SCOTT to look about, an expression of confused interest on his face.
The expression lasts all of two seconds as the massive crowd behind him surges forward. Three seconds later we lose sight of Great SCOTT as the converging crowd swallows up, and drags him down.
An hour later Great Scott emerges, crawling on his hands and knees, covered in scrapes, bruises, and I’m pretty sure there is a tread mark running down the length of his arm from a Rascal scooter.
GREAT SCOTT: I DO NOT MEAN TO BE A RACISM BUT AFRICAN AMERICAN FRIDAY IS NOT GREAT I GOT TRAMPLED BY A MOM WITH TWO XBOXS. WHY ARE THEY XBOXS THEY ARE NOT SHAPED LIKE AN X? THEY ARE JUST REGULAR SHAPED BOXES.
GREAT SCOTT: I STILL DON’T LIKE WEATHER VANES…