How I Wish I Could Celebrate Thanksgiving

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thanksgiving alone

Thanksgiving is cool and all, but the whole “let’s get the family together for yet another gut busting meal” schtick is a little tired. I mean, are we really so unimaginative that gluttony and annoying in-laws are our go-to for pretty much every occasion? So I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna scrap everything about Thanksgiving and go back to the drawing board, because I’m an innovator and an American.

Here’s how Thanksgiving should really go down.

9:20 am – Wake up call. It’s not early, because it’s a goddamn holiday, and I refuse to get up anywhere near the same time I do when I’m working, but I’m still putting it in the AM, because I’ve got things to accomplish. Plus the Detroit game starts that early on the stupid West Coast, so I’m kinda locked into it.

9:30 am – Mike Tirico is annoying the bejesus out of me, but it’s okay, because I’ve decided to go with a multi-screen set up. One TV has football on mute, the other will be playing John Candy movies all day. Uncle Buck is first. Beer number one is popped.

10:45 am – Halftime. Five beers deep. Think about getting a snack. Decide against it. Don’t wanna ruin dinner.

Noon – The game is over and the doorbell rings. It’s my mom. She has an entire Thanksgiving spread that she cooked at home and brought to me delivery-style. I set up the food on the coffee table, give her a hug, and shoo her on her way. Thanksgiving isn’t about family anymore, it’s about me. And daddy needs to focus on the Cowboys.

1:00 pm – Kickoff. I’m halfway through my turkey, the stuffing is gone, and the yams are untouched because my mom forgot that I hate yams more than I hate the Philadelphia Eagles. I’ve switched to wine, not because I particularly enjoy it, it just adds a touch of class to an otherwise garish scene of a man in sweatpants and a Cowboys oxford shoving green bean casserole for one down his throat while he screams at a TV featuring grown men grunting over a leather ball 1,500 miles away, praying that he doesn’t choke on it, because there’s no one around to save him.

1:01 pm – That was a lie. Sanchez took the field and I just remembered that I’d rather eat Costco out of yams than lose to the fucking Eagles ever again. City of Brotherly Suck My Dick, am I right?

1:30 pm – A glass of wine is thrown across the room. The mess is adequately swept up, but there will certainly be a stain.

3:00 pm – Cowboys probably lost. We were due. Any plans of going to the bar are completely cancelled. Which is fine, given that the strippers should be here at any moment. The what?! Ah, there’s the doorbell. Yeah, I ordered strippers. No, they’re not hear for lapdances, I’m too full for that. I just need to be taken care of in my vulnerable state. You know how anacondas are super susceptible to predators right after they’ve eaten? Well my main predator is having to get off the couch to get things, so I decided to take it out of the food chain by paying some nice ladies to handle things around the house while also wearing various levels of nothing.

3:05 pm – “Put Planes, Trains, and Automobiles” on.

5:30 pm – Me and the strippers are all on the couch together, crying at the ending. It’s just a silly comedy, but man does it get to you.

5:40 pm – Seahawks vs. 49ers and Spaceballs on the TVs. You other ding dongs might have chosen Splash instead, but this is my damn holiday, so we’re watching Spaceballs. Me and the strippers have a beer chugging race that was not my idea. I lose. Badly. There’s simply too much bird and veggies in my stomach to be competitive.

6:30 pm – This game is stupid. Turned out to be a blow out. Not gonna tell you by who, though. That would be cheating.

8:07 pm – The strippers dress up in sexy Pilgrim and Indian outfits and reenact the first Thanksgiving. There is a lot more sensual touching than I remember from my second grade play, outside of Mr. Sanders and that kid we never saw again.

9:32 pm – Switch to whiskey. It’s not like I have to behave in public, and the strippers are still used to customers much more problematic than a drunk writer who exercises every other day by walking down the stairs to get his mail.

10:03 pm – Isn’t John Candy in that movie where the mice go to Australia and find that hilarious lizard, and General Patton is a dick? “Rescuers Down Under!” Put it on! More whiskey.

11:20 pm – More whiskey. Every five minutes or so, I lean over to one of the strippers, quote this line, and then laugh my ass off.

11:30 pm – Today was a holiday, right? Was it something to do with Australia? Or mice? HOLY SHIT THAT’S A BIG FUCKING BIRD. Are the strippers still here?

11:31 pm – They are. They were sitting next to me when I asked that. I wasn’t paying very good attention. They’re actually off the clock, they just like my movie taste at this point.

Midnight – …….

1:00 am – …………

1:30 am – ………………

2:00 am – MOTHERFUCKING TURKEY TACOS

2:07 am – Asleep covered in stuffing.

11:00 am – Wake up to a stripper asking if she can borrow my “Stripes” DVD. Apparently she’s into John Candy too. I’m too hungover to say no. Everything in my body hurts.

I should do this for Thanksgiving every year!

Randall J. Knox (known colloquially to his friends as "Knox") left his native Texas a few years ago, and moved to Los Angeles in his '03 Buick Regal named LeRoi to write movies with his jackass college buddies. His favorite things in life include bourbon that's above his pay grade, mix CDs, and Kevin Costner films. He isn't sure what "dad jeans" are exactly, but he knows he wants a pair.

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