New Writing

Someone once told me that the true meaning of Thanksgiving has to do with slurping up every available drop of alcohol that you can get your jaundice-infected mitts on and gobbling down every manner of food you can jam-pack inside your ever-distending belly. Of course, the person who told me this was my horribly-alcoholic Uncle Peter, as he sat on the couch and gulped down Dewar's Whisky like a thirsting nomad.
I can still picture that lustful look in his intoxicated eyes as he swatted at the rump of my cousin Nadine. Thankfully she's safe now, living happily (I assume) in a padded room down at the Rainbow Valley Mental Hospice. I'd visit her there, but the smell of the disinfectant makes me gag and inevitably vomit. That, and the fact that I never liked her.

But of course, I know the REAL meaning behind Thanksgiving is to celebrate the arrival of the Pilgrims in America as they dominated the natives, burned their feeble villages to the ground, stole their women and food, feasted upon their bounty, drank their wine, and danced joyously upon the graves of many. It's truly a festive occasion and definitely one that I try never to miss out on, though at times I admit it does manage to slip my mind due to the fact that the traditional yearly invitation that my family sends out to everyone in the mail usually fails to reach me. Yes, for the past four years I haven't received an invitation informing me of the day, time, and location of the family Thanksgiving dinner. I assume it's because the invitations are getting lost in the mail and because of the complicated nature of my home address. In this illiterate society, 3's can often be misread as 8's and so forth... damned U.S. Postal Service and their uneducated absentmindedness...

Thanksgiving in my family is usually a lavish affair in which family members travel from all over the country to join in food and fellowship. Everyone dresses formally and brings some type of dish to contribute to the meal and we sit at a massive table, eat delicious foods, drink expensive wine, tell amazing tales of the past year, and laugh happily together until I black out and collapse facedown in the snow of the backyard with no pants on.  I assume everyone else does roughly the same. I've never really been coherent past about 7:30pm.

Unfortunately, my invitation was once again lost in the labyrinth of the U.S. Postal Service this year.  A month ago, I noticed the leaves on the trees turning a brilliant shade of orange and realized that the holiday must be approaching with speed, so I travelled to the convenience store (the only method I have for finding out the date). After purchasing some antiperspirant, I demanded that the cashier show me a calendar immediately.  I violently tore the "October" page out of the calendar and stuffed it into my pocket. As I turned and headed for the door, the uppity young lad behind the counter rudely informed me that we were, in fact, in the month of November. Once again, I snatched the calendar, this time folding the entire booklet in half and stuffing it into my tight sweatpants, the stiff paper scraping against my penis coarsely. I grimaced, snatched a Big Hunk candy bar from the shelf, and hastily walked out the door. I simply won't tolerate being made a fool of in public situations.

Knowing the day that Thanksgiving landed upon was only half the battle. I still needed the location. I assumed that most of the invitations had gotten through to the other family members, but I only live near three: My cousin Jack, who's a pathetic real estate agent with a family of four; my cousin Nadine, who's a committed patient at the Rainbow Valley Mental Hospice; and my Aunt Loda, who resides in the Hillpark Cemetery and is currently dead.

Since I despise Jack, and Aunt Loda's in no condition to be giving out information, I decided to pay a visit to Nadine at the mental home to see if she knew of, and would politely divulge the location of this year's festivities. This proved to be extremely difficult, considering Nadine is apparently very unstable and likely very dangerous to herself and others if permitted to leave her padded cell (according to the nurse on duty at the front desk). It also proved difficult because, after several minutes of breathing in that horrendous mental-hospital-smell, I promptly vomited and was asked to leave the premises. I objected and asked the nurse if she possibly knew the location of my family's Thanksgiving celebration, but she refused to give up any information, saying that I was in a hospital and that I was being extremely unsanitary, not to mention disruptive to the people trying to recuperate there. I attempted to explain my situation but my ability to talk was hindered by the vomit that was still gushing from my oral aperture and I was roughly escorted from the hospital by an angry security guard.  Apparently, Jack the real estate agent was my only option.

Jack has never taken much of a liking to me...probably because I used to torment him mercilessly as a child. I used to force him to eat garbage and dress in his mother's clothing for my amusement. The look Jack's father gave him when he arrived home from a hard day's work to see Jack gallivanting around in drag day after day was absolutely priceless...and the beatings he received afterwards were immensely comical. I used to call him Jaclyn and hide gay pornography in his room where his father could easily find it. Then I'd force him to eat more garbage. I think Jack may still blame me for his father accusing him of being gay and then estranging him, but I really don't know why... My hilarious antics of the past were all in good fun and if he can't take a joke then he can go leap into a lake, which incidentally, I made him do several times as a child.

Because of the fact that Jack doesn't like me, getting in touch with him proved to be quite a chore. I stopped by his home several times and pounded on his door, yelling for him to let me in and divulge the location of the celebration.  I even climbed into his back yard and peered maliciously into his windows at his family while they ate dinner, watched TV, and showered.  Unfortunately, whenever I tapped on the glass, his family would look terrified and run from the room.  In turn, I would also become terrified, leap into the alley behind his house, and hide inside of a dumpster until I was sure the coast was clear.
This outlandishness continued for several days and nights until the police presence in the area was too great for me to risk coming near.  A new plan of attack was needed.

The Monday afternoon before Thanksgiving, I located a payphone near my apartment and dialed Jack's work phone number.
Jack answered politely.
I resisted the urge to verbally berate him and told him, in a phony high-pitched voice, that my name was Clark Duffington, a wealthy businessman who wanted a tour of one of the properties Jack was selling.  From the pathetic sound of Jack's voice, he hadn't made a sale in months.  He excitedly gave me the address of a house he was showing nearby and I told him that I'd stop immediately.  As luck would have it, the house Jack was showing was less than a block away from the payphone I was using and in minutes, I was crouched in the bushes, snickering angrily and waiting for Jack's bright gold Camry to come rolling into the driveway. Fortunately, I didn't have long to wait.