Do you want to hear my order at least?

Well, this whole month, I found myself, in some part of me, quietly bemoaning how November doesn't really feel like November anymore.  Halloween hasn't felt like Halloween for some time now, but I've realized it's because I don't watch much TV anymore and people in our neighborhood don't interact much—oh man, my stomach has shrunk, i do kind of have en effective diet, a soup, a soup killed me, the rest is just trying to appeal to lust or imulse—they don't interact much, so...so if they're enthusiastic, it's voluntary.  

November, though—November is November.  Kings were born in November.  Songs have been written using "November" in the title.   November originated in Africa.  People like November, because it's nice.  November is forever a cucumber. And actually, people like saying the word November because it sounds good in their ear.  Albert Camus was born on Nov. 7, i think.  Wrestling pay-per-views take place in November.

And let me tell you something: whatever people say about Americans—oh man, I didn't know bland turkey could have such a noxious odor, I'm wondering if it's safe for the dogs—the French, let me tell you something about the French: Louie went kablooey, my friend. Louie went kablooey.  Whatever you say about America, all is forgiven over Thanksgiving dinner, and then you learn to fall in love again all week through the leftovers—oh man, i know i've been saying oh man a lot but this thing's a nuclear bomb.  It smells like what I imagine liver tastes like.  It makes rotten eggs blush.  I know L.A's full of healthy bland, but I didn't know they were going to make me drink the punch.  I've become so jaded I don't appreciate my food...but not this one.  This one came with an industrial mask.  

I'm not going to complain.  I'm not that type of consumer.

 Anyway, Thanksgiving.  Crazy about side dishes.  Turns out, it's not on the 24th.