Last Thanksgiving was Armageddon, as expected. The fourteen of us, not including the rotten kids, sat at mom’s two mahogany tables, two seats apart, nervously chewing Aunt June’s garlic string beans, waiting to see who’d speak first. It was Uncle Morty.
“You’ve really outdone yourself, Gloria. Beautiful spread and everything tastes delicious.” A hushed, collective exhale followed, and Uncle Morty smiled, nodded, and then dove into the ambrosia. Cousin Kayleigh was next.
“Love the decorations. It’s always so cozy here. So happy we could make it,” Kayleigh said, and some at the table swallowed, while most continued chewing, listening, preparing as their eyes cautiously moved over each of the guests.
“It feels good to be with family, even if it’s a little different this year, with everything that’s been going on,” my sister offered, raising her glass. Then grandpa cleared his throat, and mom dropped her fork onto the good China, making a Pa-LINK! sound, terrifying everyone.
“No way in GD hell you’re gonna tell me that election wasn’t rigged! They were bringing in suitcases of ballots from a bus paid for by George Soros!” he shouts, spitting turnip on mom’s lovely Wayfair™ centerpiece. “Been a liberal witch hunt for that poor man from day one!”
Nine of us sigh, and the awful kids in the other room start laughing.
“Courts have already ruled on this, Pops. They didn’t find—”
“Oh, courts my ass,” Grandpa barks, interrupting dad. “Half of those judges are pedos and part of the Illuminati!”
“Grampa, you need evidence for these things. You can’t just parrot what you hear on conservative radio and call it truth,” my sister suggests, at her mortal peril.
“Evidence? Since when did you liberals care about evidence?” Grandpa asks. “Fauci created that Wuhan Flu in a lab, and not one of your pals on MSNBC or CNN has reported on that. And why are we attacking a great man, who gives away his salary by the way, for not releasing his tax returns when none of us has had a chance to see what’s on Hunter Biden’s laptop yet? You want evidence, start there!”
“You know, I wouldn’t mind seeing what’s on that laptop, either,” my sister’s new boyfriend chimes in. Three more forks hit their plates.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake can we just have a nice meal in peace?” Mom asks, shaking her fists at the sides of her head, sending one of her faux pearl earrings into the creamed onions. “It’s been so long since we’ve been able to all be together.”
“We have the damn flu every year and we’ve all been fine! No reason we had to stop seeing each other in person. A bunch of malarkey, all of it, just to control everyone! Force them into joining Antifa!” Grandpa yelled.
My sister’s boyfriend nodded, and she kicked him in the shin.
“Grandpa, I love you buddy, but don’t you think there’s at least a chance you’re being manipulated in all this? That maybe this is just a cult, feeding money into the coffers of a grifter?” I suggest.
My father and Aunt get up and head for the kitchen. Mom makes the sign of the cross and then let’s her head fall to her chest.
“A cult!? That’s rich. What on earth would this selfless billionaire need my money for? He’s worked his tail off since he was younger than you and—”
“Well yeah, he worked hard to deposit and spend that four hundred million his dad gave him, sure…” I interject.
My sister, cousin, and our neighbors, Becky and Ned, run from the table. The kids in the other room are transfixed, silent, staring at those of us left at the main tab
“Fake news!” Grandpa shouts. “Haven’t you libs got anything new? All you ever do is disparage this wonderful, God-fearing man for his hard work and achievements. I didn’t see Barrack Hussein Obama cutting your taxes or building a wall to keep out the illegals! He wanted them all here to keep voting in Pelosi and the rest of the Demoncrats!”
It’s just me and Grandpa now, with the rest of the table having scurried into the kitchen, though the kids are still engaged, giggling. Sociopaths.
“How many rallies did you and your pal Chuck go to this year, Gramps? Four? Plus, you have that automatic contribution set up for his Election Defense Fund. You’ve got the bumper stickers, the two flags on the house, the red hat, a dozen shirts or more, and you bought The Apprentice Box Set. Does that seem excessive to you at all? Maaaaybe just even the tiniest bit like a cult?” I asked him.
Mom busts open the kitchen door, holding a photo album. “OK, enough of all this bickering. I want you to try my pineappale upside-down cake. I got it from Pins-Are-Us, and it’s wonderful.”
“Pinterest, Ma,” my sister tells her.
The rest of the guests amble back in, and my sister’s new boyfriend pats grandpa on the back. He looks up and groans before mom slides in next to him with a slice of cake. “Have a bite, Joe, this is really delicious,” she says, cramming a wad into his pie hole.
“I remember a time when you used to be able to speak your mind and not be attacked for it. What happened to the First Amendment?” Grandpa asks, cake bits tumbling from his lips.
The guests all grab their plates and scatter to opposite ends of the house, my sister’s new boyfriend nabbing four dinner rolls, one stuffed into his mouth. She shakes her head and returns to the kitchen.
“Grandpa,” I ask. “How are those hearing aids working out? You seem to be able to hear a lot better than last year.”
He gave me the stink for a few seconds, and then made his way to the TV in the living room. “How the hell do I get Newsmax on this damn thing,” he asks, fiddling with the remote.
“Newsmax? Those commies? Here, I can get OAN on my phone…” my sister’s boyfriend tells him.
I finished my whiskey and poured another. Soon it would be time for football and the national anthem. Last year grandpa said they should make them kneel on the bones of dead soldiers. God bless America and Happy Thanksgiving.
The Soggy Blanket 