My favorite part of Thanksgiving isn’t the gathering of my friends and family to celebrate the holiday. And it isn’t sitting back thinking about all the things I am thankful for. My favorite part of Thanksgiving is when Crazy Uncle Charlie gets drunk, and runs around with the turkey on his head making turkey noises while trying to molest my little sister.
One time I went to see Santa Clause and didn’t have a very good time at all. I remember sitting on his lap and he felt really cold. He also smelt like fish which almost made me sick. Then he wouldn’t wake up and hear my Christmas time wishes. So I started punching him and demanding that he wake up. I suddenly realized that the guy I was sitting on wasn’t really Santa after all, it was an imposer. So I grabbed his long white beard, and started yanking and yanking. It was about that time my mother came running over and plunked me from the fake Santa’s lap. I told her that this Santa wasn’t real the real Santa, and she told me I was right. That this Santa was really a homeless old dead guy, and that the real Santa was at the mall. I never really had any desirer to go see Santa since.
Dad used to take us kids out in the middle of the woods to find us a Christmas tree every year. We’d walk and walk to what seemed like hours until we came upon the biggest tree in all the forest. That’s when the fun started, he’d hand one of us the ax, whoever was the luckiest that year, and told whoever to get to work. It would take a like 15 minutes, but finally the tree would come down with a great crush. Then he’d pick another lucky individual to drag the sucker back to the truck. When we finally got back home, mom would start going crazy about his drinking and about him always bringing a ridiculously sized tree home every “f’ing” year that wouldn’t even fit in the house. That’s when Dad would tell her to screw-off then say he was leaving to see his true lover, some guy named Jack Denials. I remember the last time we ever went, when we got to the tree, he brought out a gun with one built and said that we were going to play a little game called Russian Rolette and whoever wins would get to cut as well as drag the tree back to the truck. Well, I guess I was the really lucky that year because….wait a minute, what am I talking about? My mother died when I was 3, and my dad ran out on me before I was even birthed. Man I need to lay off the drugs.
I remember how excited I would get when Thanksgiving was coming, because my family didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving like everybody else. No, my family’s part Native American, and we’d get dressed up in our traditional Native American outfits. We’d sit outside our neighbor’s windows waiting for them to begin their feats, and then run in making Native American noises, knocking over all their food and acting like we were going to scalp them. But run out instead to move on to the next home. I think that showed the white man not to try and steal our land.