Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

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Happy Thanksgiving, Love You Douchebags

Thanksgiving is my second favorite holiday because it’s as American as they come. It’s a day of coming together to celebrate taking what’s not yours and pretending to give a shit about the Commanders as your non-binary cousin pretends like they don’t benefit from the same privileges of a mass genocide that you do. It’s your Aunt’s pumpkin pie over your Uncle’s opinion on Biden’s border policy and your little brother sneaking white claws in an unfinished basement. It’s vaping and farting next to a scented candle and hearing a millennial family member use the word camp from another room as you vigorously pat your hands dry on a hand towel that says there’s no place like home. It’s great. Everyone in my generation can pretend that they hate their family because of political and philosophical differences, but as a great man once said about Paul Walker, how can we not talk about family when family is all we got? 

Everyone has a cousin around their age who’s their quintessential ally for the entire day. 364 days of the year, your relationship is best summed up by them sending you Instagram reels (because they’re a little off), but on Thanksgiving, that’s your best fucking friend in the entire world and also the only person you know with bud in a fifteen-mile radius. Will you have service at whatever house you’re going to? No. Will the toilet seat be so small that your reproductive organs become more mashed while you take a shit than the potatoes were two hours earlier? Yes. Say what you want about the holiday, and I think we can all agree that what early settlers did to Elizabeth Warren’s people was fucked up, but let’s be grateful to live in a country where a group of elitist pedophiles actively try to manipulate and poison us for profit. Happy Turkey Day.

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