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In This Issue

• Todurken: Hot Poultry Threesome
• New York City Hates The Homeless (Surprise!)
• Pope Lives It Up In Final Days
• Letters to the Feditrix: We Want Orangutans!
• Columbia's Investments Are Really Shady (Another Surprise!)
• Italian Neo-Fascism: Sexier than Ever
• Hidden Origins of your Favorite Holidays
• Macy's Parade Unites Jaded New Yorkers in Disgust
• Slow Motion Gunfight Saves Christmas
• Barnard Feminists Full of It (You Guessed It!)
• Reality TV to follow Nike's Lead, Exploit Third World Women
• Fed Staffer Admits Inappropriate Santa Fantasies
• Family Time Blows (Got you Again!)
• The Obligatory Vegan Option: Tofurky
• Why Holiday Diversity Scares Me
• A Paris Hilton Holiday Comic
• Your Retirement Fund
• Silent Vengeance: Book II
• Wacky Fun Whitey
• Robot Ninjas vs. Zombie Vikings

Blood and flightless fowl, that's all Thanksgiving means to me. Some use "cute" abbreviations like "Turkey Day" or "T-Giving." What a load of syphilis- infected pus. I hate Thanksgiving and everything it stands for, especially because I can't afford a bus ticket home.

To be honest, I don't even mind missing the "festivities" because it means I have more time to participate in far more fulfilling and worthwhile activities, such as masturbating with rubbing alcohol. And while I would love to go home and sleep in my own bed for a change, there is a certain something about the gynecological stories from my OB/GYN uncle and the rotten egg/dog shit perfume my aunt wears that's just a bit too grotesque.

I'm sure we all, in some small part, just love hearing about the extended in-laws' latest divorce proceedings, while being forced to rub the blister-coated feet of a great-aunt. However, this is just the result of mere attendance of Thanksgiving festivities. May God have mercy on you should you be asked to host.

Two years ago, I went home for Thanksgiving, and, unbeknownst to me, it was my family's turn to host the meal. I did not get a wink of sleep during the 10-hour overnight Greyhound trip because the 24-year-old deranged transvestite with a belt buckle larger than most catcherÕs mitts who thought he was a WWII veteran felt like "chatting." When I got home, my father greeted me with "Your mother needs fresh cranberries because she's making that godawful pudding again this year, and your grandmother's been in the kitchen for the last two hours." I was really confused, as it was about 4:00 am, and we were talking about cranberries in the worst neighborhood in Cleveland. Everything was gray and depressing, and I was honestly fantasizing about the design of my next "I hate Thanksgiving" tattoo. "Dad, maybe we ought to be going..." My voice trailed off as a wino on the corner vomited rotten squirrel and malt liquor. An omen, I thought.

About 20 minutes later, in an only slightly better part of town, I found 1/4th of my family already in my house, most of them cooking. Instantly I was barraged with questions about why I hadn't married Julia Stiles yet and what I was doing about the terrorism in New York. It was my turn to throw up. The rest of the family arrived and my metal-punk cousin got hold of the house stereo and a Rammstein CD.

Dinner began at noon, and I honestly believe that my family was personally responsible for a significant depletion of the turkey population. Around the second stuffed bird, my eyes already glazed over from being force-fed tarts that tasted like chalk and dead skin cells by an aunt who thought I looked too thin, I had to get away. It was about that point that I remembered my one reprieve: football.

Now let me tell you, there is nothing I despise more than the glorification of (let's call a spade a spade here) cows fighting over an inflated pork rind. These people are nothing more than 300+ pounds of stupid...and they are paid for it! I almost feel sorry for most of the "athletes" in college. They are asked to pack on so much weight that they cannot see their pricks anymore. No longer able to visually assure themselves of their manhood, they have to prove it to themselves by smashing into other gargantuan behemoths. But for some reason, my family eats this shit up, so I flipped on the boob tube, and they were gone.

Tryptophan was setting in, and I knew I had almost made my escape. I was sneaking out the back, when my mother (crafty ol' bird, I'll give her that) stopped me, asking who was going to help her with the dishes. Suddenly I felt compelled to join my sheep-like family in front of the electronic opium box in the next room, but my pride intervened. "I guess I will, Ma," I said as I quietly waved a white flag. Once again, my hubris became my utter demise. Damn that pride. I was not only doing work, I was cleaning up after a family who gave up all of 30 minutes to make the car trip here. Fucking Thanksgiving.

The next morning, I said goodbye to my folks, who honestly seemed happy to have the help over the weekend. I caught the city transit back to the Greyhound station, where the vomiting wino still sat, looking at me while I was on line for my ticket. I stared back at him for a minute, and he laughed. He knew. I don't know how, but he knew. That shiftless layabout had a better Thanksgiving than I did-and his involved begging and puking. As I sat down on the bus (typically I got the seat next to the Jehovah's Witnesses) I wondered if it was all worth it. I told myself it was, but for some reason, every time I see a pilgrim matched with a turkey, I smell rancid perfume and my neck starts to twitch.