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12:59 p.m. - 2001-11-21


As I showered this morning, soaping my ever-thinning bod with a loofah and a squirt of Liquid Dove soap, I started lamenting the fact that there are no Thanksgiving classic songs.

Christmas has tons of songs.

Halloween has "Monster Mash".

But Thanksgiving???

Not a goddamned song in the bunch.

Therefore, as I usually do when I'm in the shower for an inordinant amount of time, I decided to take it upon myself to write a series of Thanksgiving tunes in the hopes that someday they'll be classic tunes that children will sing with glee and adults will say "Son of a bitch...that's one great Thanksgiving song."

I've already got a list of song titles to start with.

Wanna hear 'em?

Of course you do. You're a groundbreaker. A risk taker. A love maker. You wanna be in on the bottom floor of this soon-to-be phenomenon and say "Shit man...I was humming that bad boy LAST Thanksgiving!"

Cool. I like you. I knew there was a reason we got along so well.

So here they are.

"Where Have All The Leaves Gone?"

"Thanksgiving in Afghanistan"

"Cornucopia Is Some Pretty Ugly Shit"

"I'm A Little Piggy On Turkey Day"

...and my first attempt at a classic.......


by Uncle Bob. All rights reserved

(Verse I)

The turkey's cooking in the oven so brown.

The pumpkin pie is looking so round.

Everything's coming together perfectlyyyyyyy.

But something is definitely wrong.

That's why I'm writing this song.

There's creepy folks outside my window looking at meeeeee.

(Verse II)

Oh holy hell, who are these fuckers?

Don't tell me that it's my wife's brothers.

And they've brought along the whole familyyyyyy.

Now they're coming into the house.

We'll have to get the furniture deloused.

Oh Jesus God why do you insist on torturing meeeeeee?


It's Thanksgiving with the Inlaws,

It's the worst day of the year.

They think they're being funny.

When they vomit up my beer.

It's Thanksgiving with the Inlaws,

I hate these sons of bitches.

I wish I had a gun right now

To shoot all these fuckin' leeches.

(Verse III)

They burp and fart and pick their noses,

The stench in the air continues to growses (Fuck you, it's called "Creative License"),

They bitch and ask when everything will be readyyyyyy.

They break my computer and watch my TV

They turn on "Friends" and beat off to Phoebe.

They say they'll bring stuff and bring uncooked spaghettiiiiii.

(Verse IV)

I hate these grubby bastards with a passion,

It's been since the 60s since their clothes were in fashion,

I can't believe I let them in my hooooooome.

I wish they all would die.

Then maybe I could have some pie.

And enjoy this shitty holiday all aloooooone.


(Maybe some kinda bridge or something then the chorus again)


(I'm not really sure yet)

(As always...I'll get back with you on that)

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NEW!!!Come and write some BAD EROTICA with the cool kids!

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