At first light tomorrow, the festival Thanksgiving begins.
In celebration of life’s bountiful blessings, I will feast unnaturally upon turkey flesh and bun meat for hours on end. Potatoes, both mashed and scalloped, will be force-fed into my quivering potato-hole at a disturbing rate. Against the tearful warnings of my loved ones, I will proceed recklessly, like Sonic the Hedgehog on meth.
This year, my Thanksgiving will be celebrated in Minnesota’s Iron Range, where the skies are gray, the mines are depleted and and the men are mustachioed and virile. This salt of the earth setting will season my banquet with a rusty zest that pleases the tongue and depresses the economy. Smiles will be minimal and conversations will be perfunctory; the fleshy sounds of eating will be interrupted only by the occasional engorged groan.
I have already begun the process of preparing for tomorrow’s recklessness. Though a series of unpleasant stretches and unnatural devices, I have expanded my stomach volume and coarsened my vocal texture. This will allow me to safely consume an additional quart of sweet potatoes and will give my voice a rich, ragged resonance redolent of a Spanish conquistador in the throes of violent victory.
By this time tomorrow, I will be in sweet agony. My shirt will be soaked through with sweat, and my abdomen will be grotesquely distended. My lips will be raw and my my breathing irregular. My hands will be spackled with meat fragments and my thumbs will be dislocated for reasons not remembered. These are the terrible costs of Thanksgiving.
Here’s wishing all of you a similarly heedless holiday! And remember, wine makes the truth louder!