Thanksgiving is a holiday that brought together two different cultures. The pilgrims came here with the best intentions. They decided to flee an oppressive people and move to a new land. Where they thrived. And became an oppressive people. You get certain people on the same continent, there's going to be a problem. Pilgrims and Indians. Protestants, Catholics. My family, anybody else's family.

Blood doesn't make you family. Hell, an only child can bleed. It's the sharing of pain that makes you family. 'Cause, you can't really love a brother or sister until you know that they're as scarred and broken as you are. And, hey, if you grow up with a father like mine and you aren't at least a little scarred and broken, well then, that's not your father. You were spawned by an entirely different guy.

Everybody's a racist. It's the one human trait that makes us all exactly the same. Deep down, we only like people who are exactly like us. And it doesn't matter. White. Black. Red. Yellow. Purple, uh oh, the purple people, are the worst. Man. All prejudiced and birth marky. But, we've got to learn to get past our differences. I learned that at the museum of tolerance. After my dad beat the crap out of a guy over a parking spot.

My father was on the Alcoholics Anonymous wishlist. My mother was on... parole. And lithium.

When you're born, you're pure. Unspoiled and trusting. Some say, it's the only time we're perfect. You're also born covered in blood and placenta. No one gets nostalgic about that.

Osama's dead. Why is the terror alert elevated or imminent? Why not chill? Can't I just fly, keep my shoes on and avoid X-ray-fueled testicular cancer?

The yearbook voted me most likely to be scraped off an onramp by a puking fireman.