It’s almost Thanksgiving.
If my family is like yours, then you know that the holidays are a time when certain loved ones choose to unfurl their Freak Flags at the dinner table.
But what is it about the holidays that provoke such fucked up behavior? Is it the pressure of cooking the perfect turkey? Do such calamitous decisions such as whether or not to put mini marshmallows on top of the sweet potato casserole get people all worked up in a tizzy?
Whatever the reason, it’s the holidays and we’re all in misery.
Perhaps if we could actually choose the people at the table there wouldn’t be so many suicides during this time of year.
Bummer that we can’t though.
They’re family and we have to invite them.
For better or worse.
Here’s the parade of circus freaks coming to dinner at my house.
The Alcoholic: Okay, this is me. I assure you it’s the only way to survive Thanksgiving without being tempted to stuff the turkey with D-con.
The Party Pooper: This is the person who doesn’t understand or believe in holidays and would rather sit at home–just like every other day in his/her pathetic existence. They come so they can try to ruin it for the rest of us and hopefully score some leftovers in the meantime.
The Cry Baby: A close friend of the party pooper, they can often be seen moping in the corner together. This one always feels left out of every conversation, hates everything being served, and opts for bread and water (or as we like to call it The Prisoner’s Plate) instead.
Johnny Come Lately: Dinner is at 1. Johnny comes at 4:30. Johnny is a douche.
Debbie Downer: “Hey, did I tell you guys about my friend Gladys? Remember how her house burned down last year and the whole family had to live in their mini van for 6 months? Well, she just found out that she’s only got two months to live and her husband just found out he has anal cancer. So now their 3 blind children and 1 legged dog will all be orphans. Isn’t that soooo saaddd?”
The Unabomber: No one knows exactly what cousin Stu does, be we know it’s Not. Good. Anyone whose pocket contents include a piece of rope, duct tape and a hunting knife is highly suspect. Don’t let Stu anywhere near the electric carving knife. Just saying.
The Peace Keeper: He/she will willingly volunteer to sit in the uncomfortable chair, chop onions until eyes fall out, or sit next to the Unabomber.
The Tycoon: Such an important guy! Cell phone. Rings. Constantly. Loud conversations. Everyone forced to listen.
The Patient: When we’re not listening to the Tycoon’s business dealings, The Patient is more than happy to fill the dead air with stories about suspicious moles, gory spinal surgery, oozing pustules, bunions, urinary incontinence and chronic diarrhea.
Diarrhea forever! Mmmmm… please pass the gravy!
The Critic: ALWAYS has a comment: “These potatoes could have used more salt. What happened to the turkey? It’s so dry! You look different dear…have you gained weight?” Sit this one next to the Unabomber–and let him have that carving knife.
The Snot: “Well, we’ve just been having the hardest time getting the historical society to approve our architect’s plans for the new house in Nantucket. We’ve had to fly out almost every weekend in our private plane. Our children, you know, the Harvard educated lawyer and the MIT dot com-er, they’ve just been soooo busy with their careers that they hardly ever have any time to ski with us in the Alps anymore….Our son almost never gets to race his Audi…Ugh! I’m just so worn out! I hope things get better soon.”
Seriously people. Can you blame me for being The Alcoholic?
Now, where the hell did I put that bottle of wine…?