It only comes once a year, a delicious feast beyond compare. Turkey, mashed potatoes, steamed carrots, stuffing, cranberries, and pies of all types. Heap up that gravy, baby. Give me another scoop of whipped cream. Bring on the comradery, the family, the sense of belonging and harmony. Give me the Dallas Cowboys and some cringy half-time show that we can all make fun of while feeling vaguely above that sort of pandering. Best part of all is that you're packing on the mass like John Goodman in a Ponderosa. I hear you're pushing the scales above 200 lbs now, and unlike the majority of your peers, most of it is solid muscle. Commendable, bra--you're getting there. You're just one Bulksgiving meal away from being a real man.
What's that, you say? Does your tummy not feel so good? Is there a peculiar sloshing around in your innards like the catalyst of a chemical explosion? Do you suddenly feel the need to rush to the toilet, to feel its sweet embrace as you hurl the contents of your stomach into its bowl like a frat boy on a Saturday night?
No, brother--this can't be happening. Not on today of all days. This is a day of packing on mass, not losing it the Sachmo way. Maybe it was just the beers last night. You had a couple after all, and you mixed that alcohol with a big bowl of goldfish, and maybe, at thirty-eight years of age, that was just too much for you. Just one brief puke and you'll be alright. Right?
Oh goddamn it. Here it comes again. And again. And again. There isn't anything left in your system to expel, yet the nausea demands a sacrifice, and you'll provide, even if you're on your knees with sweat dripping down your eyes. Even the bed provides no rest. Full body aches rack your frame, and a pain radiates out from the center of your back like you just slipped a disk while pulling 500 lbs. Good lord, this is misery. There's no way to be comfortable. There is no relief.
As Bulksgiving passes you by, you find no comfort in Seinfeld re-runs viewed from the discomfort of the sofa. You're so cold, but no amount of blankets help. Consciousness becomes a fugue state, where your pain overrides all perception. You were supposed to pushing 210 today, bra. You'll be lucky to hold on to 200.
Someone out there eat another piece of pie for the Bulksgiving that we lost. Someone scarf down some dried turkey and cold mashed potatoes. Somebody needs to collapse in a post-Thanksgiving stupor because we lost one this week, and by-god, we'll never get it back.
Remember me, bra. This was supposed to be the year. Bulksgiving turned into Pukesgiving, and I'm more than a little bit salty.
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