The bestest of holidays is upon us. It is the bulking season, the time to make merry and stuff your gullet with as much turkey as possible. The goal is to make out like John Candy at a Ponderosa or Kobeyashi at a hotdog eating contest. The only thing standing between you and gaining weight is that plate of stuffing sitting in the middle of the table. Do you want to be defeated by a plate of stuffing? Stuffing cannot defeat a man; a man defeats himself. Pile on the potatoes, the cranberries, the green bean casserole. Eat as many pieces of pie post-dinner as possible. Several hours later, when you've awoken from your after-dinner lethargy, get yourself another plate. And another. And another. If you're not kept awake at night from terrible stomach-cramping or petulant gas erupting unannounced from your anus, you're not doing this holiday right. When you step on the scale the next morning, you want to see the numbers flying like a computer glitch.
But you're an old pro at this. You've been to Bulksgiving before. This ain't your first rodeo. You ain't no chump.
Perhaps you're asking yourself why? Why such madness every year? Why the gluttony, the needless pain and suffering? I don't want to eat that much I hear you saying. All that excess food is going to turn to fat.
If you're asking yourself such questions, I want you to shut up and shove a turkey leg down your throat. Bulksgiving is not about rational thinking. It's not about health or having a good time. Bulksgiving is a bacchanal on par with the finest orgies of the Roman empire. It's a descendant of Caligula and his Animal House ways. It's a hotdog eating contest without the nasty pieces of processed meat. It's a celebration of the human spirit, of man's unconquerable will. It's about setting a goal and then beating the shit out of that goal until it's black, bruised, and limping. Bulksgiving makes no goddamn sense, and it never will.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
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