A Thanksgiving Memory

It’s turkey time (gobble, gobble). I could sit here and give a very funny list of very funny things that would make someone go “What’re you, some sort of comedian?” To which I would reply “That’s kind of like the whole thing I’m going for. Honestly? Thank you for validating my attempts at humor. I pride myself on being a haha funny man, so that means a lot.” At this point, they would walk away and never read another one of my lame articles. So I'm not going to spend this time talking about how fabulous I am; we’ll just assume I am for now. I’d like to use this article to talk about my earliest thanksgiving memory from when I was just a boy.

When I was about six years old I decided it was time to become the man of the house. I thought for sure that I could take the place of my father, who was about 10x as tall as me and 100x as strong and put dinner on the table. Thanksgiving rolled around and I was ready to claim our dinner. I spotted a turkey on our street and said this is it. I grabbed a butter knife from our kitchen drawer and proudly announced that thanksgiving dinner was taken care of. I ran out the front door and chased that turkey down the street. I got about halfway up the street when the turkey realized it was twice my size and turned around. It was at this point that I made a similar realization and ran away. My butter knife suddenly seemed worthless as my stubby legs left me an easy prey for the turkey. Thankfully I made it inside with no scratches. I’ve never had the desire to chase a turkey again. I just vehemently avoid eating them, which is great for inadvertently insulting my girlfriend's family’s cooking at thanksgiving. Guess who’s the family favorite? Here’s a hint: it’s not me.

I like cranberry sauce a lot, though.

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