The holidays are upon us. Actually they’ve been upon us since the 4th of July, when I was in Home Depot and the Christmas decorations were already displayed.
Thanksgiving is the celebration of giving thanks. Profound. In other words, we eat handfuls of food, drink gallons of boxed wine, gather with family we seldom see and then judge them and talk about them after they leave the room.
The holidays involve an American Tragedy: Gravy. Put gravy on everything, literally and figuratively. Gravy on eggs. Gravy on corn. Gravy on turkey. Gravy on the cousin with the neck tattoo. It is gluttony unfolding before your eyes, and watching someone sweat like they’re in a Bikram Yoga class when the only thing they’re doing is eating is amazing.
Another fun game when a drunken, bloated and remote family gets together is to inject politics and/or religion into the fray. I know that it’s supposed to be impolite to discuss these topics, but enough Franzia Chillable Red belches all etiquette right out the window.
After the fray, the people over 3 years old will be sleeping in chairs or taking turns launching thermonuclear gravy/turkey/mashed potato bombs in the ventless bathroom. Those aged 3 through 15 will be running around on the filthy carpet, eating pieces of biscuit or dried-out turkey from under the table, or thinking about a way they can make out with their cousin without getting reprimanded. Then, you should take a moment to give thanks for having a plate of food, a roof over your head and some warm (albeit gelatinous) people who love you unconditionally.
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