Carving the turkey is my favorite part of Thanksgiving. No, it’s not because I like holding knives or because I like to butcher things. It’s for the cooking aesthetics. The turkey always smells so fresh. Mom uses a special quality glaze every year. My knife barely goes an inch deep, and you can already breathe in the flavor. Mmm-mmm! I’d recommend keeping a towel nearby to absorb all the blood, though. Gloves are also useful just in case the turkey tries to peck at your hands. Oh yeah, and the next time the gas company knocks on your door asking for its third back-payment, don’t chase them away with a knife. -MS
My pop was the kind of guy you looked up to, but you didn’t know why. I guess it was his attitude towards life or maybe just the way he dealt with it. Did I say dealt? I meant belt. If life was anything like a fragile, defenseless baby just recently weaned from its mother’s teat, it saw a lot of my pop’s belt. But boy was that a nice belt. I used to hate it when he told me that the longer I stayed right where I was, the more he would love me when he was really just heating up his belt buckle over an open flame. But that’s the thing, you know? You just had to like the guy. Anyway, that’s why I felt so bad for killing him that one Christmas. -MT
I was so surprised the year I got the Power Wheels Jeep, mainly because I was sixteen and expected to get a real car that year. I’d stopped begging for the PW version eight years earlier. “You’ll get around just fine in this,” my dad said, ending all debate. And even though it was a little slower than my friends’ cars, he was right. The only trouble was, it was hard to get girls to have sex with me in my car, unless they were eight-year-olds. -KB
I really can’t say anything bad about my family. I mean, we put the “fun” back into “functional.” My memory abounds with beautiful memories of the holidays when I was a kid. I remember when we’d all be gathered in the living room at my uncle’s beautiful house, and oh! the look of rapture on my cousins’ faces as they opened present after present–Game Cube after laptop after Kawasaki Jet Ski! It makes me shed a tear even now to think back on how happy they were, and how my parents–if I was lucky–would give me an old boot to gnaw on while I watched. -CB
My dad’s a little weird. He never approved when I got toys he thought were feminine, like Cabbage Patch dolls or Care Bears. It’s not that he ever threw them away. He never even said anything, but I could tell, because he would always grab them from me and stuff them down his pants until they smelled like his balls. When he gave them back, he’d say “That ought to even things out, you little homo.” -ZF
I went on this holiday trip to the mountains once. It was my whole family: me, my brother, and my parents, all ready to enjoy some family time. The car ride was awesome; my brother and I downed two six packs of Coors in, like, the first forty minutes. We got so smashed, and my parents didn’t even notice. While the hazy drunkenness was nice, the excessive drinking made urine accumulate in our bladders; thus, PIT STOP! This was by far the best part of the trip. We stopped at some shady little bar on some shady little street located in a shady li’l town. The town was called Shady Oaks, a nice little town shaded by nearby mountains, which were being shaded by clouds. But, back to the story. We walked into the bar, and who do we see! Mr. Saturday Night Fever himself, John fucking Travolta. So we all introduced ourselves and fifteen minutes later we were drinking, chatting, and dancing. What a night; on the ride home we talked about the trip, and check this, my mom actually made out with John Travolta while my dad gave him a hand job. That is so sweet. -DF
Last Christmas, Dad got me a ferret. “Dad, those are illegal in California!” I told him. He didn’t listen, but the ferret did. It started looking forlorn and ashamed. It walked to the phone and pushed its nose down into the buttons for 9-1-1, like it was going to turn itself in, but when they answered the phone, the ferret just started sobbing and sniffling, and hung up. It tried calling 911 a couple more times, but never quite had the nerve. We got it some black-market ferret therapy earlier this year, though, and I think it’s doing a whole lot better now. -ZF
I had the best family holidays ever, until the family all died. Since it was a family outing, we decided to go to a “family” style pizza joint. I won’t mention the name, but for writing purposes, I’ll just mention their mascot is a rat called Chuck E., who loves his cheese and has robotic friends that sing and dance every damn night. My eleven children and my wife were all playing in the ball pit, you know, wrestling, throwing balls, punching each other in the stomachs; when all of the sudden WHAMO!!! They all died. It was tragic, the sheriff said he never saw anything more disgusting, yet slightly erotic, in his entire career. Now family holidays are nothing more than a slice of quiche and a diet cola. I watch whatever the corporate entertainment world deems holiday viewing and then fall asleep in a puddle of my own tears. I had a family once, then WHAMO!!! -DF
