To everything its purpose

Thanks giving (the action of giving thanks, not the holiday)—you just never know how it's going to hit, do you?

Sweetie and I typically ease into Thanksgiving Day with a cup of coffee and a bit of parade coverage watched in the comfort of our PJs. She then sets about pie-making and turkey preparing, and somewhere along the line the parade coverage gives way to the normal weekday television programming. I hear shouting and bleeping, and I look up to see a stage full of white, black, and brown trash shouting at one another, their faces twisted into grotesque masks of rage and indignation. Sometimes—aw, who am I kidding? Usually—they've resorted to moves obviously cadged from the WWF.

Then it hits me. If not for Thanksgiving Day, I'd be at work with a bunch of other white-collar geek types who don't say things like "Aw naw, you di'en't mutha[bleeeep]!" Jerry Springer wouldn't be on, and I wouldn't be witness to these living, breathing illustrations of how lucky I was to grow up when I did, raised the way I was, and with the opportunities I've had.

And I give thanks. There, but for the grace of God, go I.