I guess I’m ‘outta-da-loop’ because I thought the latest craze this Thanksgiving is deep-frying the bird. My aunt informed me they’ve been sizzling the poor fowls in oil for years.
Anyway, thank god it wasn’t the “in thing” when I managed the park or we could have very easily had a situation like this one:
I got hell from various halfwits in the park when I tried to enforce the “no open flames” and
“no unattended fire” regulations. Boy, they were pissier than a DMV worker on a Friday afternoon. They’d mutter under their breath something about civil rights and this being America and too much control and dictatorship, etc. etc. as if I were Hitler himself or some female Machiavellian dictator who didn’t give god damn ounce about their safety; rather I got off on controlling their lives every little chance I could get.
According to the Western Manufactured Housing Committee Association, aka WMA, and the California Codes: Health and Safety Code Section 13000-13011, and summed up nicely by yours truly, it’s not only illegal to have unattended and/or open flames in a modular home park, it’s f*#king dangerous.
I remember when space 5 had one of his monthly Latin shindigs and half the town of Castroville showed up…
I got the call around midnight when space 2, the “bee-otch” with the little rat-face dog, could no longer take the techno/rap/Latin/hip-hop/ jive music coming from 5's yard. I, wearing only my jammies and a sour disposition, jumped in my Bug and headed over the hill to “that” side of the park; only to find Jaime drunk off his ass, and a bonfire the size of those they used to have at Texas A & M during homecoming week, blazing out of control under the roof of his carport.
No one gave a damn about the 8’-foot flame. Actually, no one gave a damn about anything except the tequila.
I hate dealing with inebriated Latin men who feel the “fiesta fire” is an extension of their manhood and a cultural phenomenon, with roots buried deep down in the heart and earth of Mexico; stretching from there to the great beyond and all the way up the 101 to the hills of Prunetucky.
When he finally does focus and notice me standing there, his breath reeks of Patron.
“Baalaria! …?Waz ‘up?
“Jaime, you gotta put this out, man. It’s muy dangerous.”
“Okay…okay…Baalaria. I put it out…No promblemo.” He continues to slowly swirl his hips to the music. We’re not talking Kardashian here... more like Rico Suave only “off.”
I leave knowing I’ll be back and sure f*#king enough, I get another call from unit 2, 20 minutes later. I return with an ultimatum.
“Jaime, you either put this god damn fire out or I’m calling the sheriff and we’re gonna shut it down, baby!”
When necessary, I’m a barracuda.
It’s humorous though because space 6, 10 and 28 also felt like the not allowing of an open flame was a violation of their civil rights. Now wouldn’t this be more of a violation of sort:
For me, Thanksgiving is a diabetic nightmare. It’s carb and sugar hell and you might as well handcuff me now(wink) as I must practice enormous restraint.
It’s a holiday that my achy breaky heart pains for the turkey as well, so I usually eat my dinner in my own private guilt. I baked a Tofuki one year, with all the traditional sides, hoping the stuffing, mashers, and gluten-free pumpkin pie would disguise the fact that the entrée wasn’t the real deal. My guests tried to remain polite, best they could, but soon they began gagging
in 5-second intervals.
The numbers vary depending on the source, but according to wiki.answers, over 45 million turkeys, about 15 % of the population, were slaughtered for last year’s “Honor the Native Americans” holiday. That number is considerably low according to several national animal rights organizations.
Don’t panic, my faithful, I’m not gonna ruin your upcoming meal...
So, on a happier note, here’s the “pardoned” one:
The tables that are set on this day vary, depending on how and where you grew up, or how determined you were to shed the “how’s and where’s” of your childhood. Mine was the meat and potatoes, t.v. trays and football. The meal was served at halftime and you could only converse with one another during the commercials.
Whatever yours was and whatever it is today, I wish you a spiritual awakening that fills your soul as much as the turkey fills your belly. I mean it. If there’s one thing that Thanksgiving brings out in most of us, it’s gratitude.
And gratitude is exactly what I have for each one of you buckaroos.
Enjoy this last ‘little ditty.’ It amuses my trailer park heart and it will yours too.