Hanging with the Goon

Howdy ya'll and happy Thanksgivings! Wat a wonderfull time of tha years. It was a night to remembr at da Goon household. All of my brothras was there--Slack, Willy, Slick, Remus--as well as Uncle Thom, who provided da turkey, which he deep-fried an stuffed with chocolate. We all gathered 'round tha pick'n'ick table an had ourselves one delicieous feast. Slack picked some taters from da garden, an' Willy made an apple pie, or least he said he did, but I think he bought it from IGA. It was 'bout thirty degrees outside, but we made a big fire outta ravioli cans, toiletries, and rotten tires. Boy it smeelled alright! All da coons from da woods came an gathered 'round da fire an started howlin' in dere little coon voices, an Uncle Thom had ta get his shotgun to silence a few of dem permenantly. Den we had ourselves fried coon, which is a tasty treat, lemme tell ya. After feastin', we all rolled 'round on the da ground like heffers loaded wit caves. I fell a sleep for a bit, an had a wierd dream where i was stuck on an island surrounded by waters, an dere was a big squid underneath my island, an he kept lookin' at me wit his giant eye! Damn it was scary. I woke up to Uncle Thom pissin' on da fire and screamin' bout da police, which sent me a running fere da hills, though I figured it out later dat Thom was just havin' one of his walkin' night terrors. In da morn, we had to fight off a pack of coyotes who was scavengin' da turkey carcass. Willy brained one wit an oak branch, an dat sent 'em scurring off. All in all, it was a fine time, an one of da better thanksgivings we had, since da cops didn't come an nobody got arrested.

Well folks, I ain't makin' a whole lotta money right now, considerin' it's winter time, an we've bout sold all da apples at da apple orcherd. Ol' Sammy is in a righteous mood, an wanderin' round all da time like he don't know wat ta do. It's too early ta prune, an we don't got nothing ta do but stack crates an make apple cider. Hernando always takes some an ferments it real goode, an then he and I drink it in da barn while Sammy runs round callin' fere us. We get pretty ripped. One time I saw Jesus comin' down from da clouds, an Hernando saw him too. He said we was no good sonsabitches, which I thought wasn't very Christain of 'em. We don't drink quite as much cider anymore. I fell down through da loft just yester, an sprained my ankle, an now I'm a dragging my foot 'round like a cripple. Thank goodness it was just thanksgiving. Otherwise, I wouldn't have no magic turkey bones to chew on to get me better.