Everybody that knows me knows that Thanksgiving holds a special place in my heart. It's the one day all year where you can shamelessly gorge yourself on all the food you want, without fear of guilt or social judgement. I can best express my feelings about Thanksgiving through relaying unto you a story a family friend told me several years ago. It was about a family he knew who would stuff themselves on Thanksgiving, as we all do quite happily. The other 364 days of the year, they were like many of us. They watched their weight, and didn't go overboard and stuffing their faces with as much gluttonous goodies they could manage. However, on Thanksgiving.when they had filled their faces so full they couldn't possibly eat another bite, they pushed their plates aside and fall asleep on the dinner table, like they were a royal family whose wine had been poisoned by an usurper. They would sleep, digest, wake up, and then keep on eating. This is the standard I set all of my Thanksgiving dinners to. Not so much the part where everybody festively recreates the Jonestown Massacre as A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving plays in the background, but the part where family collectively comes together and decides we're going to be disgusting pigs for a bit. And then, because it's the first rule of Thanksgiving, we're never going to talk about the sick atrocities we have committed on this day. We're all aware that what we just did secured our spots in Hell. No need to bring it up. Another inevitable part of Thanksgiving is Black Friday, which is slowly engulfing Thanksgiving itself, or vice versa, depending on how you look at it. Black Friday is a madhouse. It's called Black Friday because for one day, god pulls back from the world, letting humanity become the worst it can be, and the slaughter ensues. I despise Black Friday's encroachment into the territory of Thanksgiving day, and my wife shares this viewpoint, or so she leads me to believe every day of the year until Thanksgiving Day, when she begins whispering in my ear that maybe we need to be one of the maniacs charging through Best Buy with a sales flyer in one hand and a large club for bludgeoning in the other. Don't mistake me for an anti-consumerist wackjob. I define myself by the meaningless crap that I buy. The 55-inch Sony Flatscreen TV in my living room is the only proof I offer when I tell people that I am far superior to them. They doubt me of course, until I fry their retinas with the glorious glow radiating partially from the television, but mostly from my blinding aura of excellence. One day,I'm going to fast forward through thousands of years of evolution and become the first man to evolve into a gaseous orb of higher consciousness -- the pure manifestation of our species' undisputed superiority, and it will be because I bought a Bugatti. I'm all for rabid, mouth-foaming consumerism, just not when it interrupts my late-November food coma. This brings me to the point of my story. I love Thanksgiving. And I am also the head cook of the family and have been so since my late teens. I always handle to Turkey, the Ham, the obligatory yams even though nobody eats that glorified garbage. And even though I am perfectly competent, every year, days before thanksgiving, anxiety besieges me. It plagues me with doubt. What if I burn the turkey? What if it all goes bad. Even though it rarely does. But this year, it all did. I wound up punching a dent into a door. The door wasn't made of wood thick enough that denting it told me I needed to use my superhuman strength and abilities to fight crime and bring justice to the criminal underworld. It was by every objective measure a terrible door. I had mistimed every dish, oversalted two dishes to the point that I could have labeled them Hillary Supporters, and they would have taken their salt out the door to go protest, and my turkey was so dark I had to convince my relatives it was just going through a goth phase, and it was perfectly normal. Just a bad year. But it was the Sugar Cookies that set me off. The chemistry that occurs during baking blows my mind. I knew I sucked at desserts, and yet I was stubborn. Or foolish. And I wanted to make my own this year. Pies are too advanced a pastry for my primate brain to comprehend fully, so I went with sugar cookies. Sugar cookies are the Social Studies of the baking world. There was no way I could mess it up. Right? Explaining what went so terribly wrong would sound like a trailer park resident telling a news crew about the tornado that just casually rolled through. There'd likely be a "It all happened too fast" and a "Before I knew it, everything was gone," thrown in there, since the situation was much the same. Within a minute, the dough collapsed and rolled gently off the rimless cookie sheet onto the oven coils below, instantly catching fire as though the devil himself had doomed my dish to failure, like my life. And in my infinite wisdom rather than put out the flames, I punched a door. It was a moment of weakness, which I freely admit, but I've lied to myself enough about it that I'm convinced I was trying to punch the door so hard that it would create a vacuum that smothered the flames. It's a damned convincing story I think. With no other options, since limping to golden corral with our wounded pride was out of the picture, we sat down and ate. Everything sucked and the apartment smelled like a Keebler elf had spontaneously combusted absolutely everywhere. We made the best of it. It was still food, and it was still family. And if anyone was stupid enough to complain, I'd just point to the dent in the door. They got my message, and I got the peace and quiet, so it all turned out well in the end.
What the hell! Hair not tied up, turkey will be flavored with hair. Burners clearly not on. Oven clearly not on. Near nudity is a grease splatter danger. 4/10.
That was a great humorous read laughed multiple times, sorry it didn't turn out so well good to stay thankful though for what we do have. Happy late Thanksgiving.
Omg lock this garbage , just nonsense . Read like the first paragraph and gave up on trying to care .
Lol, this is just one long story. You can tell the op looses track of his own thoughts... at least think about what you want to say before writing 10 pages of nonsense