Oh Jesus. I can’t breathe. The cranberry sauce isn’t homemade—I can still see the ridges from the can. I’m getting nauseous. Seriously, I’m gonna churn pep right on this plastic tablecloth depicting cornucopia still life. Does anyone have a flute of sparkling cider? Just to settle my stomach. All I see is a 128-ounce jug of Mott’s and that’s not helping.
How the hell does this happen? I’m supposed to be complementing hearty roasts and side dishes of kings. Not this Cheeto mac n’ cheese casserole! I'm meant to break freshly baked artisan bread with nobles. Not crudely snap Stella Dora breadsticks with Uncle Brett and Cousin Denny.
What is everyone even wearing? I’m standing here in a carved mahogany suit, a dispenser if you want to get technical. The occasion demands it! Why in God’s name is half the family wearing fleece pajamas? Good Lord. Instead of being handled by a tuxedoed maître d', I'm being wielded like a lightsaber by a Dragonball-hoodied tween!
What’s that they’re talking about now? “Where’s Aunt June’s fun dip?” The fuck is fun dip? Christ in heaven this is Thanksgiving! We’re not meant to dip anything but our heads in solemn prayer. Stop me if I’m wrong, salt shaker.
Oh no. He’s dead, isn’t he. These bastards clogged his sprinkle holes months ago and he’s just been shuttled out here unceremoniously like a sick prop. Every aluminum-foiled side is swimming in sodium as it is. What need is there for salt?
At least he doesn't have to listen to Grandpa Earl's borderline racist observations under the guise of political discourse. Just fucking kill me. Use me as kindling in the makeshift fire pit out back. Toss me in there with your fallen leaves, weeds, and nude WWE figures.
I was destined for better than this. Manufactured by the gods in Guangzhou, China. Somebody screwed up on the delivery order. Instead of a Williams Sonoma, I ended up in a Pensacola Marshall’s. Shared a shelf with a set of deeply discounted skeleton-shaped cutlery.
Ah fuck here we go. The main course has arrived. I don’t want to look. It’s a flash-fried turducken, isn’t it? Oh sweet Tisquantum in heaven, I'm tryptophanning over my own vomit.
Is this the banquet the pilgrims of the first Thanksgiving had in mind for the future? A classless buffet of microwaved poison? Would Samoset have welcomed this fine nation's early settlers onto native land, were he to know what Pop Tart-crusted pies awaited? Would Abraham Lincoln himself have decreed the last Thursday of every November be celebrated in this manner, were he to taste the refined sugary Juicy Juices which now lubricate these tainted gullets?
Well this paltry gathering is not getting one solitary black nugget outta me! I’m a constipated pepper mill starting right now. My mound of untainted peppercorn is not meant for such filth. Go ahead. Grind all you want. Yeah that’s right. Shout about me being defective and slam me down on the table. Drench your garbage in Kraft Ranch instead, you sick animals.
Society no longer holds a place for the gourmet pepper mill. The lemon zester. The julienne carrot peeler. Remnants of a bygone era. I’d weep if it didn’t involve dispelling my precious cracked black pepper.
Have to get out of here while these idiots are distracted with Uncle Merle's graham-crackered potatoes au gratin. I'm the only thing on this table taller than a family-sized bag of Lay's so I have an ideal vantage point…. There! An open window in the distance propped open for Aunt Lorraine's cigarettes.
Good luck, ambrosia salad. You were always kind to me.