Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Now, let’s eat!

Last night I was the uke for a black belt and a green belt going up for promotion. I actually enjoy playing the role of the hapless attacker, and did so with relish, along with much yelling and feigned anguish.

This morning, however the anguish is more than feigned. My back, shoulder, and head all ache from the generously-applied, brutal clubbings I received, and the fact that my sinuses are acting up this morning isn’t helping. I got worked over with clubs by two skilled martial artists and I’m feeling it.

The most irritating thing about the whole ordeal is that despite the prodigious amount of blunt force trauma I was dealt last night, what hurts the most is a little scrape on my elbow that I got as I was dragged over the floor. Why is it that the least consequential injury stings like a sonofabitch?

Comrades! Eggnog is now available in the white office fridge. Nog season is officially open! Rejoice!

And yes, before you ask, dear office-mates, the answer to the invariable followup question is “yes”.

The other day a pair of Mormon missionaries came to my door. I was stunned to find them there, since they’d never once deigned to visit me. I’ve seen them pedaling around my whole life, and even lived in some pretty Mormon-heavy areas where squads of the short-sleeved bicyclists seemed to patrol the streets, but had never actually seen them going door-to-door, much less showing up at mine. I had figured the whole “missionary” thing as an open secret of shirking a boring, thankless duty, involving a couple of months of idly biking around in circles for hours, then reporting back to the church, with a sly wink, that they’d been out spreading the word.

In any event these two young fellows came up to spread the good word to my household. One thing struck me as odd about them: they held the title of Elderколи под наем. While the Mormons can use any titles they like within their congregation, it just struck me as odd—faintly disingenuous, even—to see two teenagers, whose ages combined didn’t add up to mine, called Elders of a church. It’s just sort of weird.

I was very glad to have Veteran’s Day off yesterday as a paid holiday, but realized, as I stumbled and fumbled ineptly through my workday, wishing I was elsewhere, that this work week effectively has two Mondays in it.

I have been tricked.

1:58 p.m.: Despite it being a Monday, and having to start off with a sizeable number of issues in my queue to qualify as bugs, it was a pretty good day. Some of the issues were tough to digest, but I worked through them without getting sidetracked, feeling rather pleased with my unexpected focus and efficiency. That was at 1:58 p.m.

1:59 p.m.: Realizing I had somehow failed to launch Entourage in the morning, I clicked its icon, gingerly, wincing each time it bounced in the Dock.

2:02 p.m. The real Monday bares its fangs, angered at having been denied its earlier due. I am so fucked.