It's Not Thanksgiving??!!

This is an essay I had to write about my Thanksgiving this year...how do you like it? Just like the Gingerbread House one, it ended up turning into a speech...haha.


It's Not Thanksgiving!


For me, it's not officially Thanksgiving until I have taken my first bite of Thanksgiving Dinner. Because of this fact, I was struck aghast when I found out we weren't going to have Thanksgiving Dinner this year! Here's how the story went.

Sitting at my desk, I was doing my school, or in any case, pretending to do my school. I was eagerly anticipating the call that would create a major rush hour downstairs toward the kitchen. I felt drops of sweat running down my face as my excitement grew. Just as I figuratively arrived at the breaking point of my excitement, my ears picked up a faint sound. Cocking my head to the side, I listened intently. I heard a patter of feet going down the stairs. Instantly, I was on my feet. With a strangled yell that could never be written down or typed, I was plunging down the stairs in a headlong rush, knocking aside and trampling all the little kids in my way. The aromatic fragrance of the turkey coursed through my veins, egging me on. To anyone standing at the foot of the stairs, I would have appeared as a grim reaper, waving my scythe with deadly aim. As I leaped down the stairs, it felt like I was trying to go down an up escalator. No matter how fast I went, I still wasn't making progress. I was a mere vapor in the wind; everthing I did was meaningless, meaningless, meaningless...wait where was I? Oh yeah. Anyway...

About halfway down the stairs, I stopped abruptly. My teeth were still churning from chomping on imaginary turkeys, but my mouth was filled with nothing but the bitter taste of plain, foul, old air. It was as if I had just bitten into a tender, juicy, slice of turkey, only to have it vanish from the grip of my teeth before I could swallow it. The unnatural phenomenon that had stopped me in my tracks was the sight of, or lack of sight of, people in the kitchen. There was absolutely NO ONE, no, not even one, in the kitchen. My mouth fell down to my knees (again, figuratively. Cause if that had literally happened, I probably wouldn't be telling you this tale...go figure). I turned around and saw everyone (minus the kids I had trampled) gathering in the family room to sing some songs and have fellowship. I knew that worshipping and thanking God for his wonderful blessings was more important than stuffing my mouth full of food, yet I couldn't resist silently weeping in my heart of hearts. After all, it was hours past my usual dinner time, and I had been waiting for Thanksgiving all year.

But anyway, I went to sing and pray, and actually had a good time. Afterwards, I finally got to go eat, and my wonderful Thanksgiving started. And everyone lived happily ever after (except the turkey). And those kids I'd trampled...they're all fine. Well now they're all fine. Little Bobby got out of the ICU just yesterday. "But all's well that ends well" is my motto.

The Gingerbread House

This is an essay I wrote for my Language Class two years ago. It kinda ended up turning into a speech...but it's funny. Try reading it!

The Gingerbread House

About 8:00 on Christmas night in my house,there were people were stirring, but hopefully no mice. After a nice, peaceful, Christmas day, everyone in my family was quite happy and tired. To be honest, we were all kind of bored. After spending most of my day reading, I was walking around trying to find some excitement. Of course, being in Texas, there was no snow outside to play in. In fact, it was rather hot, and I could feel sweat dampening my clothes. As I wandered around, my eyes lit upon a rather interesting object on the dining room table. It was our gingerbread house. My family and I had made it a couple of days ago, but my mother had not allowed any of us to eat it; she had said that it was destined to be a decoration until after Christmas. Seeing that Christmas was now more or less over, I determined that I would to eat that gingerbread immediately. Being the gentleman I am (no, I don't need to hear you all pretend to cough. ;-) ), I went and got all my siblings together to partake of the house, rather than selfishly devouring it myself. We then went to ask my mother for permission to eat the gingerbread house. Of course, she said, "No," and that we’d have to wait until after Christmas was completely and truly over. Expecting her to reply this way, I had braced myself for a drawn out fight. After a little bit of excellent debating on my part, I finally convinced her to allow us to eat the gingerbread house right then, instead of having to wait until the next day. (If you asked her why she allowed us to do that, she would reply that she had gotten tired of arguing and had given in so that we would stop nagging, but...how could you possibly believe that? [that's a rhetorical question, don't answer it])

After securing my mother's reluctantly given permission, we attacked the house. Within moments, it was as if turkey buzzards had started circling around a bloody carcass, except that instead of a carcass, there was a beautiful, deliciously scrumptious-looking house. I swear, looking at that house made me drool (figuratively speaking, not literally, cause that would have been disgusting, and you would condemn me as being a disgusting, immature little child)! Reaching over, I grabbed one section of the roof and gently yanked it off the rest of the house. My younger siblings sat patiently, waiting to see whether I’d get sick and die if I ate it. That's just how we roll, by the way. They had realized after living with me for years that if I got sick from eating something, they had all the reason to stay away from it. Quickly, I chomped down, feeling the various dental features of my mouth close on the gingerbread. Then, I heard a sound. It was as if two hammers had hit each other in my mouth. Except that they were teeth, not hammers, cause two hammers wouldn't be able to fit in my mouth (even though my mouth is pretty big [in the physical sense, not in the sense that I talk too much, I hope, although I get the feeling that you think I am doing that right now, but...back to the story]). I felt my jaw tighten as my teeth wobbled with excruciating pain. The gingerbread, after sitting out for a couple of days, had now become Gingerstone©. Oh, how my teeth ached from the impact of trying to bite through it! Eventually, after a couple of tentative tries, I was able to gingerly (ha, no pun intended) chomp off a little piece. I tasted it as the aromas of the gingerbread and candy drifted lazily up my nasal passage. Honestly, the gingerbread, or should I say Gingerstone© , tasted rather stale. But you eat what you get (you're supposed to think about poor, starving kids in Africa at this point). When life hands you stale gingerbread, don’t throw it back; it might break something.

Anyway, after a few bites, I decided to call it quits. My siblings took little bites too, but as I had expected, none of them enjoyed it. So we decided to simply eat the frosting and candy decorations instead. Soon, the once beautiful gingerbread house with its candy trees, bushes, and walkway, was stripped bare of everything but gingerbread. Arg, I meant Gingerstone©. There we sat, with bulging bellies (Does that phrase sound weird to anyone else, or is it just me?), staring at what little remained of the house. We sat there for quite a while. Soon, we all developed stomachaches, almost certainly from eating that gingerbread.

Over the next couple of days, we tried numerous times to eat the remaining gingerbread, so as not to waste it. We tried softening it with milk and other liquids, but it still tasted rather foul. Plus, my teeth still ached from that first impatient bite. My mom eventually decided to call it quits and so she put it outside for the birds to eat. Through the window, I watched the birds come and attempt to eat the gingerbread. I also saw them flying away immediately with bent and broken beaks. Fancy that.

We finally threw the crumbly remains in the trash. You don’t know how good I felt doing that. Stop pretending to; it insults me and my woeful experiences.

The moral of the story is: well I guess it doesn't really have a moral, other than that gingerbread can...do something. I forget what. Oh wait...nevermind. NO wait, actually, I got it: if you have a problem with birds, feed them gingerbread! There. Now I feel like this story is actually useful for something.