At the back of the bar there’s a group of five men in their thirties, most of them are wearing plaid. They are crowded around a video-game console pounding at the air and yelling things like, “BITE! Bitebitebitebitebite.” “AIRMAIL, Budddiiiie! ” I walk past them on my way to the bathroom and glance at the screen. Video Golf is just about the whitest thing the world’s got going.

This man is standing barefoot in the gutter of a busy street wearing his white terrycloth bathrobe. He has not come out to retrieve the paper, or turn off the sprinklers, or check his mail. He’s come out to enjoy this fine Thanksgiving Day and watch the cars go by. He spits, takes a drag of his cigarette, and sighs contentedly.

We are the proud owners of 692 candle votives, three party jugs of SKYY Citrus, and five large jars of maraschino cherries. Come on over. We’ll get drunk, light shit on fire, and see how many cherries you can fit in your mouth at once. Married people know how to party.

People, please. I do not want to say this again, and I know I need to talk slowly because you’re obviously not the brightest bulb:

Keep your children away from Michael Jackson.

The man breathes out of two holes in the middle of his face, you can see his entire circulatory system through his skin, he dangles his children from balconies, and he’s had his penis described by a thirteen-year-old boy. What needs to happen before you think, “You know, maybe I shouldn’t send Johnny over to play on the merry-go-round.”