What can I say?—I am my mother's son. Five drinks and all political correctness disappears faster than orange drank at a Fifty Cent show. Don't hate—why some of my best friends are noble savages that loves them's a casino—"Seven come eleven, Mama needs a new pair of pec implants!"
I know I say it every year—but, where oh where does November go? I've barely gotten the Halloween shit put away and I'm already having to design elaborate floor plans for rearranging furniture to accommodate the Christmas tree. I can hardly believe that Thanksgiving is less than a week away. And if that's not enough to make you run for that wild turkey best served over ice, consider that Christmas is almost here and there are fewer than 40 days left in the year. Someone pass mother her special egg nog—cause as Mother Stephens used to say, "Frank...I'm getting another one of my sick headaches..."
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