The Thanksgiving table has long served as a rhetorical battleground for Americans. Whether it’s gossip about that cousin who chopped off his own leg and used it to beat his children with, or Aunt Gladys , who thinks she is a Transformer named Poonclutch, or other moral, political, or ethical topics, wars have always been fought over the turkey and cranberry sauce. However, this year is different, as Trump has turned America into vast wasteland that Samuel Delaney would look at and say, “Too dark, man.”
We have been advised by the David Brookseses and the Bret Stephenseses that civility is the cure for our ails, and that “differing opinions” must be tolerated. Family is, after all, the most important thing. Perhaps if we just listen harder. Perhaps if we try to see the other side as human instead of thunderfuckers who enjoy torturing gay brown children by hitting them with cheap ladders, then…and only then…will America regain the moral status that we have been assured it had at one time.
This advice is, quite frankly, the steamiest pile of bullshit since Scottie Pippin dropped a deuce on a frigid Chicago morning, and serves only to make the white man whiter and manner. Although Democrats made strides in the 2018 election, Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez was not appointed Grand Emperoratrix of the First American Soviet, and therefore gays and Puerto Ricans will most likely be made illegal within weeks. Being Progressive doesn’t just mean buying Michelle Obama’s book and subscribing to ContraPoints on YouTube. True Progressivism requires direct action.
If you can do so safely, you have the obligation to murder and consume your racist relatives this Thanksgiving. Statistically, at least one person at the table deserves to be turned into yummy, stuffing-stuffed dinner due to his or her inappropriate beliefs. Their mindset may not be palatable, but their loins and flanks certainly are. If you’re worried about blowback from Grandma, then you’re a coward who is–in every way–worse than Trump; kill and eat Grandma, too. Yes, she will be tough and stringy, but God (who is a woman) made crockpots for a reason.
How much longer must we sit in cranberried silence as Uncle Bungle prattles on about leprosy-infested caravans making their way into our Walmarts? Why suffer while Cousin Hephaestus refuses to call the turkey by its chosen pronoun? There are knives everywhere, dammit, and the ovens are already pre-heated. Kill these people. Eat these people.
And that’s what Thanksgiving means to me.
I wish I could’ve written that.