Turkey Day Trials
With Thanksgiving looming right around the corner, I thought I’d devote a little piece to some of the shit I go through (and cause other people to go through) during the turkey day holiday. Though I’m a grown man with long-divorced parents, the 850 mile journey to the mountains of Boulder, Colorado – where my two younger brothers live – is always a family affair. My mother and father aren’t fans of flying, so every year we look past one another’s differences (in theory) and undertake the torturous 12 hour drive through Kansas – the flattest, most boring fucking place in the world. The extended car ride somehow causes me to regress into a quasi-adolescent state, so I spend the time berating my reactionary father with long-winded commentaries on everything he’s touchy about (including his propensity toward driving 50 in a 75 mph zone), which causes him to abandon his cool intellectual persona long enough to turn beet red, scream wonderfully creative obscenities and smash his fists into the dashboard. Unbeknownst to him, I catch all of these awesome tantrums on camera, which I then, from the safety of the back seat, play repeatedly, causing additional episodes of belligerent outbursts (later, my brothers and I will laugh at the videos for hours, instigating a third round of fatherly rage). My mother, the sweet mediator, smiles and knits while periodically muttering “That’s enough, boys.” This Thanksgiving is the first year my somewhat evil, elf-like girlfriend, Bad Sparkle, will be along for the ride, so I plan on using as many phone applications as possible to annoy her ad
infinitum. One application allows the user to film a subject while making all sorts of random, appallingly loud noises, which will be good for catching her half-asleep screams in hi def when I wake her at the crack of 3 A.M. with the ear-shattering shrill of an air horn. Eventually, we’ll get to the home of my sly little brother’s billionaire heiress girlfriend (yes, she’s Jewish; but that’s ok, my girl is too), where, after greeting my little bro’s alien-like hairless cat, “Orange Hiss”, and enormous/enormously retarded dog, “Boscoe,” we waste no time breaking into the alcoholic grape juice closet (er, wine closet) my father has been shipping bottles to all year. And so begins a week of throwing my precision diet out the window, for the sake of binging upon frightful amounts of gravy-soaked turkey, disorienting booze,
strawberry rhubarb pie, and everything else no one should ever consume. Between monumental sugar crashes, we’ll (except for my mom; she’ll be cooking in the kitchen) watch plenty of holiday-themed movies such as Predator, 28 Days Later, and Point Break, then curse one another over intentionally interfering with each others’ throws during ultra-intense Frisbee-golf games, before we three brothers hit the gym for some serious, vomit-inducing workouts. And somewhere in there, little bro and I will make fun of my even-tempered, Adonis-like middle brother (we’re all studs), via implying that he has an over-sized cranium (he doesn’t); the big head jokes will fly, anger will rise, he’ll lose his cool, and there may very well be some inebriated, Fight Club-like action swinging around. But then, what’s Thanksgiving without a little drunken violence?
By Jon Neralich