WARNING: Obligatory Sentimental Thanksgiving Blog-Post Ahead … NOT!


by Joe Buonfiglio

Here we go again.  It’s once more time to reconstitute some variation of the Thanksgiving “What I’m Thankful For” news-media and blog-post fluff piece, so we can all take a break from the nonstop barrage of horror the world relentlessly throws at us the rest of the year.  This is where I’m supposed to wax nostalgic and reminisce about grandma’s stuffing from days gone by as if I give a damn about telling it and you give a shit about reading it.

You know me better than that, don’t you?

The reality is that holiday or not, grandma’s meals were always so overcooked that there wasn’t enough gravy in the universe to make her charred-flesh comestibles palatable and, quite frankly, grandpa smelled funny.

So if you want to get all teary-eyed about the monumental number of turkeys from a bygone era that gave their lives so that our uncouth clans could gorge themselves and watch TV in a near vegetative state while you and your significant other cleaned a virtual assembly line of dirty dishes, knock yourself out.  As for me, Turkey Day is just one more reason for retailers in all their various incarnations to try and sell me shit I don’t need while I tend to every whim of fucking houseguests I don’t want.  And to make matters worse, I’m supposed to do it all while pretending to be thankful that this is some great gift bestowed upon me by some Supreme Being while He-She-It puts the universe on hold in order to get me half off at the electronics store.


Who gives a fuck about flying cars?  Why haven’t they invented Tryptophan in pill form so we don’t have to engage in Thanksgiving’s procedural nonsense and just head straight for the post-consumption naptime?

Thankful?  Thankful for what?!

Want to know for what I am truly thankful?


BACON: That’s right.  I went there.  Eatin’ the pig is considered politically incorrect, unhealthy and downright disgusting.  Screw that!  I’m finally coming out of the swine closet.  I.  LOVE.  BACON.  Love it!  I’ll take a good BLT over an open-face turkey sandwich any day of the week, the “leftover surprise” day after Thanksgiving included.  And if you try to sneak in that unholy turkey-bacon crap between my toasted slices of white fuck-that-cardboard-100% wheat-shit bread, I’ll punch you in the nuts.

No.  I’m not kidding.

No.  If my host is a woman, I am not beyond a slap in the vajayjay if she attempts such culinary deception.  Equal rights.  Equal pay.  Equal punishment.

(No, I am not advocating domestic violence.  Calm the fuck down.  It’s just a joke, so get off your soapbox….  Although, that stuffing you’re eating looks delicious from up there.)

BEER: In particular, a good Guinness stout ale.  Does white wine go with turkey or is it red?  Maybe a sweeter Liebfraumilch would better complement the—  Fuck you.  Just give me my Guinness and a shot of Jameson’s before I shove that turkey leg up your ass.

MORE THAN ONE TOILET IN THE HOUSE: While I will incessantly bitch about having to clean a house with more than one bathroom, the reality is that a second shitter is an absolute blessing when family and friends come to visit for Thanksgiving.  It enables me to have my own, private escape pod.  It is sanctum sanctorum.  The holiest of holies.  If not for the additional bathroom to hide in, I’d have long ago planted false notices of my death into the newspaper’s obits to evade Turkey Day visitors.

Those of you with multiple water-closets in your home know the holiday joy of which I speak.  Those of you who do not?


I’ll light a candle for you … both literally and figuratively!  Sharing one bathroom over Thanksgiving is NOT the most aromatic of scenarios.

CITIES: Fuck nature.  I like the feel of concrete under my feet.  And have you ever seen the cheesy Christmas decorations that pop up in rural municipalities right around Thanksgiving?  Pathetic.  Give me the big tree at Rockefeller Center.  That’s how you start a holiday!

THE OCEAN: I adore the ocean: walking along it at sunset; the smell of salt in the air; the chill of the waves at my feet…. … … Look, I know I said “Fuck nature” in the last paragraph just a scant few lines ago.  Don’t blame me for my inability to focus.  An epidemiological study of my place would involve a forced evacuation.  I’m dizzy from all the bleach and toilet-cleaner fumes I’ve been inhaling while “sprucing up” the joint for Thanksgiving.  So just back off or I’ll make you clean the oven.

BAD DRIVERS: Contrary to popular belief, I find road rage to be a good thing.  After a day of total bullshit gnawing at me as if my veins flowed with honey and picnic ants took up residence in my bloodstream, it allows me to deal with my numerous anger issues by taking it all out on total strangers rather than bringing it home to be let loose upon my family.

In fact, I find it somewhat amusing to pretend that I’m Mad Max unleashing my vehicular fury upon the unfortunate co-inhabitants of our dystopian society.  It’s sort of like transportation cosplay for the clinically insane.

Oh, right.  Like you’ve never gotten pissed watching those commercials that pop up on TV right around Thanksgiving depicting a jolly Saint Nicholas making red luxury cars for the “naughty” boys and girls, and white ones for the “nice” big kids.  If you’re not in the 1% and that television spot doesn’t drive you to commit a few acts of vehicular manslaughter, you had better check your pulse, Gandhi; you’re just not human.

ALL-NIGHT DINERS: No reason.  I just find it comforting to know they’re there.  You know.  Just in case.

TURKEY “WISHBONES“: Making a wish on the frail, dried bones of some poor, dead bird you’ve just devoured is such a bizarrely aberrant thing to do, I find myself strangely attracted to the tradition.  It’s so borderline Satanic in its voodoo-esque deviance; I am drawn to it not only like the proverbial moth to the flame, but the flame back to the oxygen in the moth’s lungs.

Okay, so moths are insects and insects don’t have lungs.  It was literary license on my part.  Excuse me for trying to breathe some poetic culture into your vulgar existence.


Okay, there again, a little stretch for the sake of craft.  Strictly speaking, a heathen is someone without religious grounding, not someone who merely lacks culture and refineme—  Oh, fuck you!  It’s your fault for being so damn literal.

THE THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE IN NEW YORK CITY: Don’t make too much out of this.  It doesn’t mean I like Thanksgiving.  I just watch hoping a balloon explodes taking out the lip-syncing cast of some bloated Broadway show on the float below.  It’s like people who watch a NASCAR race secretly hoping for the big multicar crash.  My only emotional attachment is the thrill of potential carnage.

Oh, like you watch the parade hoping for a glimpse of the Snoopy balloon.

TURKEY AND GRAVY AND STUFFING AND MASHED POTATOES AND PUMPKIN PIE: Okay, you caught me.  It DOES mean I like Thanksgiving.  Happy?  Good.  I’m thrilled for you.  Now fuck off and let me eat in peace!  I need to build up my strength before Christmas gets here necessitating the need to obey the voices in my head telling me to strangle my oh-so merry neighbors with their own decorative lights.

Now where did I put those little mini-marshmallows?  You can’t have hot cocoa without mini-marshmallows.

Stop smiling at me like that.

Shut up.

© 2014 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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