I’m writing this Thanksgiving post now because the trauma has only recently passed.


Not so recently, the Rhadamanthus clan took part in that awful American tradition of Thanksgiving, the time where a family sit around the dinner table, discuss life, and disembowel, roast, and devour a poor sap selected a week before. And then they eat turkey.

This Thanksgiving, I decided to give any sort of formal attire a miss (as per usual) and adorn my Rise Against shirt. I received a compliment from my cousin, he who wears straightened black-dyed hair and compass star tattoos. He and I are an example of convergent evolution, so much that we resemble black-haired, non-conformist brothers. His family’s German shepherd mix was there, a beast which eats two Shetland ponies every morning. The dinner was held at our grandfather’s estate, which reeks of moth balls, awkward childhood memories, and death. Our grandfather is an old fart with a walrus mustache, an ancient poker buddy of Methuselah, the only one in the family who retains conservative leanings whose interests are, alone, Mother England and genealogy. Before dinner was served I was sufficiently drunk on imported beer.

The conversation was fantastic. The aforementioned cousin was the victim of a gift; a name tag bearing the title “Owner of the Biggest Dog in — County”. More phallic jokes followed as the robust Merlot poured from the bottle. My sister, a lively creature, threw a crescent roll at our estranged uncle. He was amused, mostly due to the influence of his imported beer.

After dinner, my cousins and I convinced the slightly inebriated uncle to play a game of our own invention: Extreme Spoons. The rules are simple. You pass the cards until you get four of the same cards, as in regular spoons, and then you run for the designated field where the spoons are hidden. Those without a spoon at the end of the round lose. Tempers flare, fists are thrown, and family feuds are made. Its only a matter of time before I propose a drinking aspect to the game. Its a mistake on our part that we didn’t place money on the competition. Anyways, after a rematch resulting from a dispute over the rightful victor (I’m ashamed to admit that I spotted the last spoon one second after my cousin, and held her until I could reach the spoon. All’s fair …), my cousin was named the 2013 Spoons Queen.

Since the whole, insufferable lot of my family was convened, my grandfather decided it was the best time to distribute the family heirlooms in his basement. There were some jewels to be had: pieces of buffalo skin, eagle feathers, some authentic Native American art, all questionably legal. My oldest sister entered into negotiations for the rest of the silver our grandfather had promised her. As it stands, she now only requires the bowels to finish the collection. I found the closest thing the geezer must have had to a house god: a squat little Aztec owl, purveyor of death. My aunt, with her goodly sense of fucked-up humor collected a book titled Tissue Cleaning Through Bowel Management. It was a beautiful moment for everyone in the family.


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