Wednesday, November 21, 2007

A Thanksgiving tale

If my calendar isn't lying to me (again) I am correct in saying that tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Now I could go two ways here. Down road 'A' I could regale you with some sentimental tale about how great Thanksgiving is with seeing family members and having a jolly time over a tasty, filling meal. If I trek down road 'B', I could take a drastically different path and give it to you straight, carefully and tediously explaining why it is that you only see some of these people once a year and why families are great but only because after you eat (particularly if the feast is at someone else's house) you can promptly leave before things get uglier.

Being that I am who I am, I'm gonna give it to you straight as I sit here enjoying a few deep gulps from the perfectly chilled bottle of Schlitz Malt Liquor in preparation for one mind-numbingly long day of work before the painfully long Thanksgiving day. Damn, I love malt liquor. It's a sort of truth serum.

We all know how road 'B' will treat us. We'll pack up the old car about 30 minutes before we need to leave for our destination. In our minds, we know that this will leave us plenty of time but something will happen. It might be a bowl of Jell-O dessert tipping over in the back seat and spilling all over the carefully manicured leather because someone forgot to snap the lid on all the way or maybe the tire that was just a bit low the day before has now gone flat but someway, somehow, that 30 minute buffer is gonna get chewed up real quick. That's why you stashed a couple additional forties of Schlitz in the trunk because this is God's way of telling you that this day is going nowhere but downhill.

Finally, an hour after you had initially planned to hit the road, you finally get to pull out of the driveway as you and your significant other banter back and forth, verbally checking items off because neither of you could be bothered to actually write a simple list on something appropriate like the torn up remains from a case of beer. Five miles down the road it dawns on you that you forgot your billfold. Blowing it off is easier than adding another ten of fifteen minutes to your trip which is already behind schedule by an hour. What could happen?

Twenty minutes later, it happens. As you were speeding (who actually gets pulled over for doing 85 in a 55?) to make up time from the earlier incidents, you happen to meet a mount me-hat-wearing state trooper. Hoping he didn't notice your bright red car, you forge ahead but it's too late, the dutiful trooper is fast approaching from behind you with his lights swirling. Knowing that he's after nobody but you, you pull over to the gravel shoulder of the road and power down your window.

As he asks for your license and proof of insurance, you realize that it might have been a good idea to add ten more minutes to your trip and grab that wallet you left sitting inside the refrigerator. The trooper, feeling the spirit of Thanksgiving, understands your situation and cuts you a break. The combined fines for speeding, no proof of insurance and no license only total $545 but he sends you on your way as he checks out your wife's cleavage. Pervert.

As you pull away, you break into an argument with your wife asking her in a loud but controlled manner why she didn't push the girls up a bit more and try to knock the fine down a bit. A hushed silence falls for the rest of the trek.

Finally, only 85 minutes late, you and your wife arrive at Aunt Mildred and Uncle Bert's house which has been in a perpetual state of remodeling for about 20 years for that oh-so-important Thanksgiving dinner.

Oddly, the kitchen, as you walk through it, smells like smoke and their indoor-only German Shepherd is perched with his front paws up on the 50s-era chrome and laminate table in the middle of the kitchen lapping feverishly at the dishes strewn about. Wrinkly Aunt Mildred leans against the counter, sucking on a Virginia Slim as she dashes in for a hug. Normally, a hug isn't bad but Aunt Mildred favors herself as a "hot mama" and as she hugs you for an uncomfortable amount of time, she presses he wrinkly fun bags against you and gooses you square on the ass. While this is taking place, you notice Uncle Bert is giving your wife a shoulder rub that he has every intention of moving to the pantry if you know what I mean.

Making a quick retreat, you dash out the door and run towards the car. Fumbling the keys, you pop the trunk and retrieve that bag of forties you stashed there a couple hours prior. Twisting the cap, you bring the bottle and its contents to your mouth and swig down a third of it without breathing. God, this day is gonna suck but at least there's free food.

Feeling somewhat refreshed, you sprint inside to grab one of the better folding chairs and a TV tray that isn't rusty and wait, avoiding human interaction, for the food.

Noticing that there is some loud activity at a table in the corner of the living room, you saunter over there and see the group of middle-aged folks talking loudly and slamming back shots of some dark liquid resembling motor oil. Knowing that things can't get much worse, you pull up a chair and join in. As they play "I never" you realize that your Aunt Martha is a huge fan of anal and your Uncle Mack once participated in a gay orgy in a church basement. It was also revealed that, after you wife joined in the fun, she once sprinted naked through an area park in high school. Suddenly, you realize that there is nobody normal in this family and as you face begins to feel extremely numb, the call for dinner rings out from the kitchen.

Not caring that Snuggles the German Shepherd had tongue-bathed every dish in the house, you load up your semi-clean plate with tasty vittles in a vain attempt to soak up the vast quantities of alcohol calling your belly home. Your wife looks at you and whispers, asking how drunk you actually are in a rather slurred tone of her own.

Sitting at the table instead of the less rusty TV tray you had earlier staked out, you start up swilling various forms of booze with the increasingly rowdy crowd that has plenty of sexual skeletons stashed firmly in their closets. As you alternately toss back shots and choke down the dry turkey while slathering it with burned gravy, your wife starts feeling frisky and is just short of fondling you as she sits to the right of you. Aunt Mildred, sitting across the table from you, has decided to play footsie with you and the probably bisexual Uncle Mack on your left is obviously fond of sitting next to you as shown by the tent being pitched in his nearly transparent Zubaz.

After enduring all forms of advancements for nearly an hour, you slide your chair back and stumble away from the table and exit the kitchen door towards your car. Again, you pop the trunk and grab both forties from the paper bag. Climbing into the back seat, you lay back against your balled up sweatshirt and nurse the first bottle as the combination of booze and food sets in and the loud arguments from inside the house, of which you occasionally hear the words "slut" and "dumbass" lull you off to dreamland. Ah, only four more hours until you leave behind the only area of the state to have a radio station that plays Christmas polka tunes.

Well, that forty is drained. Hope you enjoyed this haunting turkey day tale. See y'all on the flip side. Happy Thanksgiving.


Dan said...

Why do all Aunt Midreds's always play footsie with us??

Happy Thanksgiving!

Brendan said...


Beth said...

Well, after reading that Thanksgiving saga, dare I wish you a Happy One? Perhaps I should just wish you luck at this year's festivities!

Hill said...

OK, let me just say this about your hifrigginglarious Bird Day post.



H said...

Ah, the Thanksgiving spirit. Have a good one!

The Future Was Yesterday said...

"why it is that you only see some of these people once a year and why families are great but only because after you eat (particularly if the feast is at someone else's house) you can promptly leave before things get uglier."
LMAO!!! There's reality shows...and then there's you. You are much better!! You described Thanksgiving as it happens to Every Family sooner or later, complete with the leering cop and fines! And you did it so well, I looked around for the empties to throw away when I was done reading!:)

buffalodickdy said...

Aren't genetics a wonderful thing?

Jules said...


Happy Thanksgiving, Sornie!

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Regards, Chris
(Please can you delete this comment after your decision?)