From the warm blue waters of the Caribbean to the warm brown . . . ovens of home, I guess. As is usually the case, I’ll be taking the next few days off - and that means there’s nothing tomorrow. For once in a great while, just absolutely NOTHING. Not saying that I want to relax after the rigors of the cruise and everything, but Thursday will be family time, and I can imagine everyone’s expression if I say “welp, time to recode the redirect page.”

The picture above is from a beer ad. Beer belongs in American life! That’s the message of the series, in case anyone had any doubt. Interesting dynamics between the three people in the back - the young Charles Bronson loner, the tall guy who seems to be a million miles away, and the cool and appraising stare of Mother.

Look at that clock. Seems to have its priorities reversed.

Well, let’s look at an ad.

People were tired of unhappily blended whiskeys. They wanted the perfect marriage only Schenley could produce. Why, even doomed fowl were annoyed by insuperior liquors:

I'll bet that would be an adequate compensation. In this strange world, sentient birds not only know their fate, they are almost . . . giddy with delight over fast-approaching death, as though it's a simple quick ceremony that leads straight to a glorious afterlife. Cheer up! says Friend Thelma.

		Why should he care how good a cook she is? He's going to be dead. This is like being pleased by the quality of the upholstery in your coffin.

Doggeral top to bottom:

Clear heads chose Calvert, the ads said; murky, drink-addled brains called out for Old Overshoe or Four Noses or something else. Did you still choose Calvert after three or four? Perhaps, but the bartender would pour something cheaper when you weren't looking. Like you could tell. Your critical faculties, like Gus, were no longer with us.

That'll do - enjoy your Thanksgiving, of course, and we'll see you back here tomorrow.