We weren’t going to post this week since it is a holiday and we are both on vacation with family and neither of us has the patience for dial up. But then we received this little essay written by someone we are auditioning to ghost-writer our blog on occasions just like this. So we thought, what better way to try him out. Let us know what you think.

LITTLE TABLE BLEW
By: Anonymous friend of BEST* who might occasionaly ghost-write this blog.

I am at the little table? Are you kidding? These fucking people have done it to me again. For fourteen years I have been coming to this bullshit Thanksgiving dinner, and still, I am stuck at the little table. Oh sure, I get one of the grown up folding chairs, and I am in a “supervisory” role over the animals, but that just makes me look more ridiculous. And these animals, these 4 and 5 years olds, are middle aged for animals; they aren’t green at this; they know what they are doing.

Where is my older brother Glenn? He is at the big table. He’s been there for years.

Glenn got the bump up to the bigs when he was just 12. It seems that the family hadn’t yet sprouted back then. It was like professional sports before they let black guys play. There was a lot more room for slow white guys.

Now we have wives, husbands, fiancées, girlfriends and Cousin Chloe’s weird boyfriend Jim (He wears cardigans over turtlenecks and has a mustache and calls me “dude”, but he doesn’t say it right. It’s like when Dad tries to throw a football). They all got to skip their time at the little table. God knows what they’ve done for that privilege. So for a guy like me who has put in his dues, times are tough. I bring up books I’ve read and tests I’ve taken and games I’ve won. But I just get nods and good for you’s and then one of the little animals hits me in the head with a grape.

“You got a lot of food Chris!”

Oh do I you little fucking animal? Why don’t you go back to your pre-school piss pad you little shit. I got a lot of food because I am working out these days. I benched pressed 100lbs 3 times last week. Coach says if I keep working like this, I could make Varsity next year. We’ll see if these people are ignorant enough to have a Varsity Letterman sitting with you little shitbags.

“Yeah, I guess I do.” No sense in anybody crying today. Although I know someone will and it will probably be Cousin Chloe’s weird boyfriend Jim.

I refuse to listen to this anymore. If they whisper one more dirty joke over at the big table, well…they can go fuck themselves. I see you Glenn; I know you get to hear the jokes. You don’t have to look over here to make sure I know I can’t hear them. I know you know I know I can’t hear them. We’re good buddy. Nice job with your D average first semester, by the way. Dumbass.

It’s not like I don’t know stuff. I saw Billie Jo Gafney’s tits 2 weeks ago. It was at a football game and we told her we weren’t sure she was a girl so she showed us her tits. Bam. Done. I am not fucking clueless.

Whatever. This has to be it. This is the last of a long road. Next year, I am making Mom and Dad get me here early. I am grabbing that big fucking chair Uncle Howard’s in. It’s the one with the view of the TV and the clear path to the bathroom. They won’t kick me out. I’ll be a Varsity Letterman. And who knows what else of Billie Jo Gaffney’s anatomy I will have seen. Glenn will have failed out of school no doubt, so he can “supervise” the animals. I’ll be in that big fucking chair at that big fucking table listening to some pretty fucking amazing jokes.

That will be a Happy Thanksgiving.