Flooding the basement with turkey gravy is just the beginning, though it took 26 hours to prepare all that gravy and I haven’t gotten any sleep since starting the process. The gravy needs to at least come up to your shins, or it can’t be called a legitimate flood. I’ve decided against trying to float on my back in the stuff, I don’t need my whole body drenched with a substance that brings to mind those old elementary school turkey lunches at the beginning of the week of Thanksgiving, with potatoes and canned green beans, maybe a piece of droopy pumpkin pie. Once the taste for flooding has been satisfied, digging a hole to China in the backyard is a logical next step. All the cartoons from my youth assured me that it’s possible, and I won’t rest until I burrow through the core of the planet–though more than likely I’ll run out of energy and pass out after I’ve dug about 20 feet down.
WHARVED 