Thanksgiving was very extremely delightful. There was not a blood relation in sight, thank you Giant Head of Bob Saget. Alas, alas, that I am married, for my hostess’s mini-thug cousin showed up right after we ate dinner.

He was this huge dude of Swedish descent, and he seemed really nice at first. But then he started telling this story about some hapless fucker who parked in his assigned spot at his apartment complex. Hapless Fucker refused to move his car (which is a major party foul, of course) and my hostess’s cousin opened a can of whup-ass…on Hapless Fucker’s car.

The police came and hauled The Cousin off to the pokey for malicious mischief.

“What’s jail like?” said one of our friends who was sitting at the table. I was fetching myself another drink so as to further increase the enjoyment of the story.

“It was okay,” The Cousin said. “I was in the tank with a bunch of guys who had gotten six months for beating their wives. I got out in two days.”

He was smoking these queer cigarettes that mini-thugs always seem to smoke and I was totally enamored of him. What is it about jail time that’s such a turn on? I told my hostess that I was ready to be his Kim Mathers.

Also, I learned a very useful cure for hiccups. You lay down on your back and another person massages your diaphragm. I have never had hiccups go away so fast. Which was good, because with all of my slurring, staggering, and belligerence, I did not need to be hiccupping, too. Good lord.