It was a normal Fall day, a bit brisk, but sunny. I was headed to a friend’s house for the Thanksgiving dinner.

When I stopped to take a leak, I should have considered this a portent.

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Yes, somewhere out there, in the universal order, a door was off its hinge. Only now, in retrospect, can I fathom what angered the gobbler. It had to be payback for weird old Cousin Fencehole and the way he tormented the birds last Thanksgiving.

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It was harder than usual, tracking down the main course.

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What I hadn’t realized was the way they set up turkey insurgency training cells, so the young toms and hens would know they were under the gun come this November.

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Moronically, I decided to carry on this lame attempt at holiday mirth anyway. I thought back to the origins of this ceremonial meal, with my usual cultural sensitivity.

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And decided to conduct a ceremonial dance to honor them, and the life of the bird properly.

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Little did I know that the fowl had a ceremonial dance of its own.

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The meal prep did not go well at first.

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But I finally got the bird roasting. Now shut up. Nobody told you that you can surf someplace else just to avoid the corny crap. In fact, since this is Thanksgiving, that’s not corn, it’s maize. And if you leave now, you’ll miss the maizing stuff. Which isn’t in the bird’s cavity.

While the bird roasted, me and the missus headed down to the town square, where the Howard G. Howard Elementary schoolers provided an interpretational theater production called “I, Turkey”.

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Wasn’t that special. We rounded up the kids and headed home, to finish cooking all the fixings. Expecting our company any time, we heard the doorbell…. but nope, it wasn’t our company. It was the freaky Rainshine Family, the vegan health nut ones.

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Forunately, they’d come just to borrow a cup of karma corn. And you know, there’s always plenty of corn to share here. And maize.

After they left, I could see our dinner company pulling in the drive, so I sent our son, Tommee, out to greet them. How was I to know, he would pick that moment to have a full-blown identity crisis?

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That was the last we’d see of Tommee till the leftovers were gone. My brother, Randy, had picked up our other son, Jared, at Portland State, and drove down to join us for turkey and football. His wife, Randi, decided to bring the videocam.

“Great,” said our drama queen daughter, Sarah, “there’s nothing like being taped while we’re pigging out.”

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And with that, it was time to reflect on all the other things we were thankful for.

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And God bless Tiny Tim. We dug in. First, seconds, thirds. With lots of rum and eggnog. And pie. And more rum and eggnog.

We waddled to the living room, ready for the big game. And beer and eggnog.

Crap, they were on a commercial break.

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Okay, now the game….

Huh? We misshed it? Fuck. More beer and eggnog.

The announcer came on and shaid the Ducksh losht 63 to 1. I washn’t gonna ashk. Hic! I knew it wash from the curshe of that goldarned turkey that attacked ush.

Okayyyyy… while I go gotsta take a pish. Thish here’s the video we made at Amurrican Shtreet with our verrry besht wishesh for your holiday.

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There. Another half hour of your life you’ll never get back. Are you full yet?

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