A Strange Thanksgiving Without The Packers

Thanksgiving is a
holiday of traditions. For many these traditions include things like big turkey dinners, saying the yearly "hello" to a weird aunt or uncle and sitting back in the easy chair with beer in hand to watch some football.

As I’m sure you dear readers can imagine, there is almost nothing traditional about a Thanksgiving at the South Pole. For that reason I am going to take a timeout from my usual hard-hitting, factual, Packers format and use this week's column to tell you a little about Thanksgiving… South Pole style.

There are about 240 of us here at Amundsen-Scott Station. And about 150 of us have moms and dads, husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends or at least a fish at home that we miss. The other 40 may possibly be fleeing alimony, child support, or a multitude of other legal gobbledy-gook. Nonetheless, as we always do, every single one of us came together last Saturday to swap wild stories from back home, listen to some jazz, eat foreign cheeses and drink enough free wine to temporarily put all other Station business on hold.

As I mentioned above, due to the constant flow of supply flights we celebrated our Thanksgiving on Saturday rather than the traditional Thursday. This however, had no effect on 240 ne'er-do-wells who will by nature start to dance and party during any minute off and who will flat-out lose it when they don’t have to work the next day.

My fellow Polies and I awoke on Saturday ready for one hell of an evening and that is exactly what we got. The meal began in the hallways of the station with a couple talented young men playing string music while Executive Chef James Brown and crew (including my chicken soup savior—Beaver) set out a delicious spread of something I couldn’t—and still can’t—pronounce, along with smoked salmon, shrimp, baked brie, and a tub of “Sangria” made from vodka, frozen strawberries and god knows what else. Once the tub of Sangria was gone and the hallway was too crowded it was time for the real feast. We entered the Station Galley which had been transformed into a luxurious hall complete with chandeliers (white Christmas lights), fancy tablecloths (sheets), and cloth napkins (they were actually cloth). Volunteer Wine Stewards then began to parade in between tables endlessly filling our glasses with red and white wines as we filed up to the buffet line and filled our plates with all of the foods that reminded us of a thanksgiving at home.

As the night progressed and the wine flowed there was only one last thing for our South Pole family to partake in. Nudity. Earlier in the evening a plan was hatched. A plan to pile as many belly distended, drunken, shrunken people into the Old Dome Station and take a fair well photo - A nude farewell photo. You see, all smart people realize Domes are the devil's creation and should be torn down.* Because of this fact the National Science Foundation (NSF) will begin to tear down and get rid of the old Dome next week. As a symbol of our appreciation we figured a nude, goodbye, photo in the Dome was in order.

The rest of Thanksgiving night at the Pole dear readers will be left up to your imagination. Many a good men and women love their jobs here and for that reason any nude photos and any detailed events of late night happenings will not be published anytime soon.

Here is wishing all of you a wonderful Thanksgiving from your packer fan at the Pole,

*See next week’s column for more information on domes and why they are a disgraceful product of a perverted future.