Thanksgiving Chicken.
I awoke early Thanksgiving morning, half asleep and mostly naked. I blundered through my room searching for some warm article of clothing to help me combat the cool autumn chill that had so conveniently set itself up in my room. Stumbling up the stairs, headed toward the kitchen, the old wood-beam steps creaked and groaned under my feet. Reaching for a box of Count Chocula, the guilt factor set in when I once again realized I hadn't seen my mother in nearly a year. Replacing the box of cereal I decided I would hold off on a morning snack and wait to gluten myself at the feast I"m sure my mother was already hard at work on.
My body desperately needed some sort of nourishment to fuel me through the four hour drive to my mom's humble abode. Settling for some orange juice, I got a glass and headed for the fridge. When reaching for my juice, I couldn't help but notice that the top shelf was freshly stocked with Budweiser. I thought to myself "Dad wont be up for hours due to working double his shift at the mines last night and I would have a long, boring, four hour journey to embark upon. What the hell" I couldn't resist. Forget the orange juice I needed some beer. Quickly, I snatched a beer and popped the top. Instantly downing it, I grabbed three more and headed for the door. In my frenzy I nearly forgot to dress appropriately. It only took a second for me to pull on a pair of kakis and a hooded Abercrombie sweat shirt; then I was off.
I jumped into my baby (The 2002 Celica GT my dad bought me for my birthday a couple of months before). In the back seat was an old shirt I used for football practice but now it had a new purpose hiding my brew. Drinking my next beer and with the other two concealed, I drove off. Hells Bells echoed, blasting in my ears while I pushed my automobile to the max. I zoomed by cars, driving at a steady one hundred miles per hour.