Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: thanksgiving

Ready For The Feast

Was John Mayer not invited or did he have Celebrity Thanksgiving to attend?

OR

Why is Oteil not sitting with the rest of the band? Is it because he wore sweatpants on Thursday?

OR

Is Matt Busch wearing a fuckingĀ Islanders hoodie? Unacceptable, Matt Busch.

OR

“Who’s the youngest here?”

“Black Phil.”

“Thanks, Billy. Black Phil–”

“Oteil. My name is Oteil.”

“–will you read the Four Questions for us?”

“Wrong holiday, Bobby.”

Heading To The In-Laws

PLYMOUTH, MASACHUSETTS – 1621

“The Wakkaflakkaflames?”

“The Wampanoag, James.”

“The Wookienoogies?”

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

“I am, Constance. I don’t see why we have to eat with these…savages.”

“They’re our neighbors now.”

“They’re heathens!”

“James, we’re Pilgrims. We think everyone’s a heathen.”

“Well, they are some heathenistic heathens. They heathe it up!”

“The verb form of ‘heathen’ is not ‘heathe.'”

“Don’t correct me in front of the children. Where are the children?”

“Dead.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“We picked an awful time to have kids.”

“The 17th century?”

“The past in general. We should have waited until, oh, 1980 or so.”

“Tactical error on our part. Put on your pants.”

“I don’t want to. Tell me again why we’re eating with these animals.”

“Because they have food, James. Because they’ve figured out how to live in this godforsaken wilderness and we’re gnawing on our shoes for nutrition. Maybe if we’re nice to them, they’ll teach us how to cultivate our crops in this new soil.”

“We know how to farm.”

“We know how to farm in England. How are we doing over here?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Some of the fields are a bit sparser than one would prefer.”

“Well, except for the cemetery. That’s getting pretty full.”

“These savages have nothing to teach us, Constance. Once this cold snap is over, we’ll have so much food we won’t know what to do with it.”

“Cold snap?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean winter?”

“How bad could it be?”

“Squanto said there would be four months of sub-zero temperatures and 20-foot high drifts of snow.”

“I’m not listening to Squanto. He’s a race-baiter.”

“James, we are going to eat with the Indians. We are going to be nice to them. We are going to get them to teach us how to find food.”

“We should have stayed in Holland.”

“They threw us out of Holland, jackass. They threw us out of everywhere, which is why we’re here in the middle of nowhere starving to death. How are your shoes?”

“What? My shoes?”

“Your shoes. What kind of condition are they in?”

“I could probably visit the cobbler.”

“Uh-huh. Do we have a cobbler, James?”

“No.”

“No. What do we have?”

“Preachers, large hats, and dead children.”

“Right. But the Indians have shoes, right?”

“I’m not wearing moccasins. I’d rather go barefoot. Jesus went barefoot.”

“He did not. He wore sandals. He was famous for wearing sandals. Plus–and this is important, James–he lived where it was warm. It’s gonna be 20 below zero in two weeks.”

“The Lord will provide.”

“He did. He sent the Wampanoag.”

“Stop talking back to me or I’ll tell everyone you’re a witch.”

“James, you’re gonna be polite. Period, end.”

“Counter-offer.”

“What?”

“I pretend to be polite, learn all of their ways, and then, when there are more of us, slaughter every last one of them.”

“That’s fine, too.”

“Happy First Thanksgiving, Constance.”

“Why would we call it that?”

“Shut up, witch.”

TotD’s Tips For Surviving Thanksgiving

Just stay home What’s truly more depressing: Netflix and bong hits in your own, quiet, home; or realizing the extent of your genetic shittiness?

Take notes Seriously. Pretend you’re texting and just write down the primitive nonsense thrown about the table. It makes you an observer in your own life, and casts an acceptable pall on your surroundings by tricking you into thinking you’re some sort of anthropologist. Similarly, pretend you’re a talk show host when talking to someone you have nothing to talk to about. Don’t have a conversation with your weird cousin: interview him.

Do not fuck the turkey Now, Enthusiasts, you and I know that this would be awesome. Normal people will not understand, and neither will hungry people. Do not fuck the turkey once it’s on the table, do not fuck the turkey when it’s being seasoned before cooking, and–whatever you do–do not fuck the turkey while the turkey is still frozen. You will hurt your genitals.

Drugs help Xanax is what you want. Or doobies, although doobies are tougher to hide than xanax; they are stinky and englassinate your eyes. Should you microdose? That depends on whether you think microdosing is a thing or not. (People whose opinions I respect say it is; I’m skeptical.) Should you macrodose? Fuck, no. What about a mild opiate? Holy shit, yes. But–unless you are like me, and benzos have no effect until I’m comatose for 14 hours–xanax is your jam for this special Thursday.

Booze doesn’t Put the drink down. (Although I’ll be honest here, Enthusiasts, and tell you that I come from a non-drinking family: there was never any alcohol offered at any of our holidays, so I’m really not the person to be taking advice from on this one. My grandfather enjoyed his Jack Daniels, and several members of the family are drunks, but there was never so much as beer or wine at our gatherings.) The point is to get through the evening without the cops being called, and booze does not help with that pursuit. Alcohol is cop juice.

Don’t bring your snake Aunt Barbara does not want to meet Funky Winkersnake.

Conversation starters “WE’RE ALL GONNA FUCKING DIE!” is probably not what you want to go with. Best to avoid current events altogether. In fact, it seems like every topic these fraught days is a minefield. What to talk about? Easy. Write this down on your palm and try not to sweat: Make fun of NFL quarterbacks. There is nothing that brings Americans together like mocking Aaron Rodgers or Eli Manning. (Warning: making fun of Cam Newton or Colin Kaepernick may go to the very place you were trying so hard to avoid.)

Fuck cranberry sauce It looks menstrual. (Fuck the cranberry in toto, as a matter of fact. You’ve never eaten a cranberry, have you? Not the circularly-dimpled globule of sauce slid sexily from its can, or the juice that lies about curing UTI’s, but an actual cranberry. They don’t sell them in the produce section next to blueberries (the king of berries) and strawberries and blackberries. Know why? It’s because the cranberry is bitter, and totally unpalatable without vast addings of sugar.)

Be Canadian Canadians had their Thanksgiving weeks ago, and they recently elected a leader who is the exact opposite of the one America did. In every single way, the precise and diametric opposite. What is there to about Justin Trudeau to argue about? “I find him too handsome and reasonable.” Americans would kill for those kind of problems.

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