(no subject)
I have a plan. It is a brand new plan. It is a plan so nefarious, so sneaky, that it offers to make merry the usual hash of the holidays. It is a gluttonous plan.
Before I left work today, I stopped for a moment to listen to the plaintive cries of the Peasants that typically accompanies my departure. “Oh Ian, please don't go!” “Oh Ian, every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you!” “Oh Ian, you were fired 6 Months ago, why do you continue to show-up?” And “Where the Hell are you going with my stapler?!?” But, today there was a new cry, today I heard, “Oh Ian, screw you and your god-damn Fried Turkey!” Yes, it's true, not only am I admired for my collegial je ne sais quoi, incisive wit, and drunken slurs against the French, but I am now also admired for my culinary acumen. And unlike my other admirable traits, which contributes only to the spiritual betterment of the office, my cooking skills can actually donate material benefits - i.e., Fried Turkey - to the welfare of my office mates and their tummies.
It was with this realization that I thought-up my plan. While my cooking skills could offer material benefit to my co-workers, I decided that they shouldn't. After all, it's my Fried Turkey, not anyone else's Fried Turkey. Recently, I must explain, I had a third-life conversion to hedonism, I mean Libertarianism. The reasons for this conversion are complex and intimately related to my being the ruggedly handsome loner-type, but, suffice it to say, I was overjoyed to discover a philosophy that allowed me to be as prickish and self-serving as I could desire. In view of my new stage on life's way, the possibility of Fried Turkey sharing seemed to undermine the notions of ownership rights and self-sufficiency that the Internet Whackjobs, nee Bloggers, tell me are so vital to my newly discovered Libertarian life philosophy. The contribution of fried turkey to the office, I reasoned, is a form of charity that would, beyond any doubt, undermine the dignity of the recipient and act as a disincentive for start-up turkey fryers, thereby delaying the further expansion of the Fried Turkey Economy and creating a culture of dependency.1
And yet, despite my nascent Libertarianism, I have a hard time believing that all charity is bad. I think I have learned a thing or two keeping my nose so far up management's collective ass; on occasion, a capitalist does offer a bit of charity to the little people. Typically, such charity is manifested in a form letter printed on off-white 24-lb parchment paper - suitable for framing, just not so very suitable for hanging - describing the thirteen dollar donation made in the employee's name to the charity of the employer's choice. Yes, I thought, this is the charity of business, this is the charity of enlightened self-interest!
So, here's what I decided to do. Rather than, on Monday, bringing in bits and pieces of the Fried Turkey for my Co-Workers to eat, I would give to each of my co-workers, a signed, certified, and authenticated certificate describing the piece of Fried Turkey I ate on Thanksgiving and how I ate each piece of Fried Turkey on their behalf. The certificate would go on to describe how very much I enjoyed each piece of Fried Turkey, how very glad their donations of Fried Turkey made me, and how very happy I was that it was not they eating te Fried Turkey. Perhaps I would even describe the relationship between each piece of Fried Turkey and each co-worker; like, who is a thigh, a wing of stringy dried-out meat, a breast, or a lump of fried skin. I could even donate the winning end of the wishbone. Not only, I reasoned, would this be charitable, but it could also be considered a spiteful sort-of conformance with the megalomania that I am masquerading as my new political philosophy. I was especially enthused by the spiteful part of the plan.
So, I traveled Wednesday evening, to my parent's house, and prepared the many elements of the Fried Turkey. The 5-gallons of peanut oil, the pot, the propane, and the 15-pound turkey. On Thanksgiving morning, however, a thought suddenly occurred to me, “15-pound isn't very big for a turkey; the baked turkey for the rest of the family is a good 25-pounds; I feel sort-of . . . emasculated.”2 But, what could I do, as I would be providing Certificates of Fried Turkey Donation to Ian's Tummy - perhaps I could have thought of a better name for the charitable letters - I would have nothing to do with the extra Fried Turkey. Of course, I could just tell my family that I was eating on behalf of my six office-mates, but even that is pushing it with a 15-pound turkey. Luckily, I had a second idea, “Ian,” I, Ian, said, “You're not thinking big enough here!” “Who,” I thought to myself, but spoke out loud and so distracted my brother from his Magic the Gathering card game3 - which, I must admit, is neither here nor there, but remains one of those details. Anyway, I was thinking to myself - once again - “Who is in more need of charity than your office-mates? Who, also, has no need for high-grade certificates and form letters and would gladly accept letters of donation written on the back of the Washington Post with crayons? Further, what group exists in large enough numbers to rationalize a larger turkey? And, finally, what group lives in the park outside of my office?”
Yes, that's right, the Homeless! I am eating extra Fried Turkey on behalf of the Homeless! I am giving letters of donation to the homeless! Specifically, I will be frying an extra turkey, eating the turkey on Monday, while sitting at a window in an office overlooking the park, as I print out letters of donation from a high speed copier for each piece of turkey that I eat, and, between bites, I will be folding the letters into little paper airplanes and launching these paper planes from the window into the park; all for the spiritual betterment of my fellow (albeit poorer) man (and woman) and the advancement of my digestive processes.
Perhaps if I can get my office-mates to help me fold, they too can then have a piece of Fried Turkey; provided they take the time to thank the homeless in an appropriate (and frameable) fashion for the kind contributions of Fried Turkey.
I can't even begin to tell you the fucked-up charity shit I am planning for Christmas.
1 Not to mention minimizing instances of accidental self-immolation and grease fire induce home destructions. I don't need to tell you what this does to the Insurance Market, do I?
2 Yes, let's not start on the my Father is “bigger" thing. I'm still recovering from the whole walking in on my father peeing when I was five-years old. Aye, Chihuahua! I curse the unholy lottery that is genetic inheritance.
3 After all of my confabulism, I'm not kidding here!
Before I left work today, I stopped for a moment to listen to the plaintive cries of the Peasants that typically accompanies my departure. “Oh Ian, please don't go!” “Oh Ian, every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you!” “Oh Ian, you were fired 6 Months ago, why do you continue to show-up?” And “Where the Hell are you going with my stapler?!?” But, today there was a new cry, today I heard, “Oh Ian, screw you and your god-damn Fried Turkey!” Yes, it's true, not only am I admired for my collegial je ne sais quoi, incisive wit, and drunken slurs against the French, but I am now also admired for my culinary acumen. And unlike my other admirable traits, which contributes only to the spiritual betterment of the office, my cooking skills can actually donate material benefits - i.e., Fried Turkey - to the welfare of my office mates and their tummies.
It was with this realization that I thought-up my plan. While my cooking skills could offer material benefit to my co-workers, I decided that they shouldn't. After all, it's my Fried Turkey, not anyone else's Fried Turkey. Recently, I must explain, I had a third-life conversion to hedonism, I mean Libertarianism. The reasons for this conversion are complex and intimately related to my being the ruggedly handsome loner-type, but, suffice it to say, I was overjoyed to discover a philosophy that allowed me to be as prickish and self-serving as I could desire. In view of my new stage on life's way, the possibility of Fried Turkey sharing seemed to undermine the notions of ownership rights and self-sufficiency that the Internet Whackjobs, nee Bloggers, tell me are so vital to my newly discovered Libertarian life philosophy. The contribution of fried turkey to the office, I reasoned, is a form of charity that would, beyond any doubt, undermine the dignity of the recipient and act as a disincentive for start-up turkey fryers, thereby delaying the further expansion of the Fried Turkey Economy and creating a culture of dependency.1
And yet, despite my nascent Libertarianism, I have a hard time believing that all charity is bad. I think I have learned a thing or two keeping my nose so far up management's collective ass; on occasion, a capitalist does offer a bit of charity to the little people. Typically, such charity is manifested in a form letter printed on off-white 24-lb parchment paper - suitable for framing, just not so very suitable for hanging - describing the thirteen dollar donation made in the employee's name to the charity of the employer's choice. Yes, I thought, this is the charity of business, this is the charity of enlightened self-interest!
So, here's what I decided to do. Rather than, on Monday, bringing in bits and pieces of the Fried Turkey for my Co-Workers to eat, I would give to each of my co-workers, a signed, certified, and authenticated certificate describing the piece of Fried Turkey I ate on Thanksgiving and how I ate each piece of Fried Turkey on their behalf. The certificate would go on to describe how very much I enjoyed each piece of Fried Turkey, how very glad their donations of Fried Turkey made me, and how very happy I was that it was not they eating te Fried Turkey. Perhaps I would even describe the relationship between each piece of Fried Turkey and each co-worker; like, who is a thigh, a wing of stringy dried-out meat, a breast, or a lump of fried skin. I could even donate the winning end of the wishbone. Not only, I reasoned, would this be charitable, but it could also be considered a spiteful sort-of conformance with the megalomania that I am masquerading as my new political philosophy. I was especially enthused by the spiteful part of the plan.
So, I traveled Wednesday evening, to my parent's house, and prepared the many elements of the Fried Turkey. The 5-gallons of peanut oil, the pot, the propane, and the 15-pound turkey. On Thanksgiving morning, however, a thought suddenly occurred to me, “15-pound isn't very big for a turkey; the baked turkey for the rest of the family is a good 25-pounds; I feel sort-of . . . emasculated.”2 But, what could I do, as I would be providing Certificates of Fried Turkey Donation to Ian's Tummy - perhaps I could have thought of a better name for the charitable letters - I would have nothing to do with the extra Fried Turkey. Of course, I could just tell my family that I was eating on behalf of my six office-mates, but even that is pushing it with a 15-pound turkey. Luckily, I had a second idea, “Ian,” I, Ian, said, “You're not thinking big enough here!” “Who,” I thought to myself, but spoke out loud and so distracted my brother from his Magic the Gathering card game3 - which, I must admit, is neither here nor there, but remains one of those details. Anyway, I was thinking to myself - once again - “Who is in more need of charity than your office-mates? Who, also, has no need for high-grade certificates and form letters and would gladly accept letters of donation written on the back of the Washington Post with crayons? Further, what group exists in large enough numbers to rationalize a larger turkey? And, finally, what group lives in the park outside of my office?”
Yes, that's right, the Homeless! I am eating extra Fried Turkey on behalf of the Homeless! I am giving letters of donation to the homeless! Specifically, I will be frying an extra turkey, eating the turkey on Monday, while sitting at a window in an office overlooking the park, as I print out letters of donation from a high speed copier for each piece of turkey that I eat, and, between bites, I will be folding the letters into little paper airplanes and launching these paper planes from the window into the park; all for the spiritual betterment of my fellow (albeit poorer) man (and woman) and the advancement of my digestive processes.
Perhaps if I can get my office-mates to help me fold, they too can then have a piece of Fried Turkey; provided they take the time to thank the homeless in an appropriate (and frameable) fashion for the kind contributions of Fried Turkey.
I can't even begin to tell you the fucked-up charity shit I am planning for Christmas.
1 Not to mention minimizing instances of accidental self-immolation and grease fire induce home destructions. I don't need to tell you what this does to the Insurance Market, do I?
2 Yes, let's not start on the my Father is “bigger" thing. I'm still recovering from the whole walking in on my father peeing when I was five-years old. Aye, Chihuahua! I curse the unholy lottery that is genetic inheritance.
3 After all of my confabulism, I'm not kidding here!