Personally I dislike the chore of eating food. I relate more to Kafka’s “Hunger Artist” than to Turkey-Day bingers. But, for the sake of this essay, let me imagine myself, in an exaggerated and comic-book fashion, to have achieved the holiday spirit:
Whoo! I ate a lot, boy; I am stuffed. Now I’m all bloated, and I have dysentery. Don’t follow my example, otherwise your belly will bulge out like mine does: I look like a blimp. There should be a sky banner flapping behind me, proclaiming the message: “Eating too much food is the wrong way to seek health and happiness.”
Man, I feel like I’m going to burst. And this equally bloated overeater sitting next to me is my brother, Paul:
“Thanks for introducing me, Bryan; I sure feel like I’m gonna burst.”
“Me, too. Let’s have a race.”
So Paul and I now have a race to see who bursts first. The starting gun fires: “Bang!” and I win the trophy.
Yes, this is the time of year for eating and then sleeping on couches. And, when one eats too much, one blows up, as I did above. Now my innards are all over the floor. So our family dog comes and licks up the blood, meat, and guts, till eventually he, too, farts up and busts.
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