It’s time for a very special Thanksgiving Dead Parents, which is like saying it’s time to put some fun Photoshop filters on a cancerous MRI scan. Let’s get warm and fuzzy you beautiful sluts!
Thanksgiving used to be the coolest holiday in my house, mostly because it wasn’t in my house. It was our chance to hang out with Cool Aunt Lois, who threw the illest T-giving (by lower middle-class Midwestern standards). All the Lundqui rolled up to her sweet house with the high ceilings and the patio, where she lived with her Ron Swanson-‘stached architect husband and their kids, who introduced us to video game cheats and Napster.
The coolness didn’t stop there. Sure, we had your usual holiday fare, but tradition called for family members to bring over whatever life-ending “food” they could stuff in their vans on the way over. Our Thanksgivings regularly featured cases of White Castles, buckets of Popeyes, and big aluminum trays of Chicago-style Italian beef.
You don’t know what that is? Or, worse, you ordered one at an UNO off the Interstate and weren’t impressed? Shame on you. Stop reading, go to northern Illinois, and don’t come back until you’re out of stroke rehab. I’ll wait.
Was it white-trashy? You can bet your meth it was! Good thing none of us went to liberal arts schools and got all irritating and self-aware about it. Plus, we were always too busy unhinging our jaws and tripling our body weights to start fights, so these were our salad days (minus the salad).
The Lundqui took the actual giving-thanks part of Thanksgiving pretty seriously, and I might as well not break the streak. One thing I’d like to give thanks for is that, although this blog often makes me out to be a pity case, I’ve never had a year as bad as my aunt Lois’s 2001.
First, her dear mother died. Then her son was murdered. Then her husband blamed his death on her, revealed a long-running affair, and took off. Also, 9/11, but who didn’t have a 9/11 in those days? Anyway, if she’d hosted Thanksgiving that year, the cranberry sauce would’ve been cigarettes and the turkey would’ve been a game of Russian roulette.
Cool Thanksgiving was dead. Long live Old Thanksgiving. From then on, we celebrated the holiday with my great-aunt Char, an impossibly sweet elderly Swedish lady who can’t help but sound like someone I made up just to kill off before midterms. The crowd at her place is small and polite; sure, everyone has forty years on me, but they aren’t bad.
“They,” of course, means everyone other than the Hannibal Lecter of anti-Semitism.
His name is David Laske, he’s brilliant, insane, and boy oh boy does he hate him some chosen people. I don’t know his connection to the family, but I do know that he has a PhD, two bachelor’s degrees, and eight master’s. If any of that sounds like an exaggeration, check his Board of Advisors profile from the Astrology Learning Center:
Notice anything funny, other than that he’s the guy from Ghost Hunters gone even more to seed?
Last sentence, first part: “He has extensive knowledge of practical ritual via membership in several fraternal orders.” From what I remember, he’s a Mason and a Knight of Pythias, but two ain’t several, so there’s definitely more. Note: upon publishing this, I plan to avoid windows and laser pointers until further notice. Their eyes are everywhere.
I learned all of this within minutes of meeting the guy, and, being 11 and in my politically correct phase, I got upset and tried to fight him. Not physically, since he’s three hundred pounds of Caucasian purity, though that would’ve been hilarious—I took him on with my sparse mental faculties. If only I could tell my younger self that old racists are comedy goldmines who should only be halted mid-ramble when you need to find a pen.
A few choice bits of Laske:
- “Why watch sports? You’re paying to watch black millionaires have fun.”
- “There’s nothing anti-Semitic about T. S. Eliot. In fact, he was probably a British spy in World War I.”
- “I’m not racist, I’m culturist. There’s nothing wrong with other races, but the people who choose to follow the culture of the inner city make me sick.”
And so it was for several years. He’d make some remark about how a Goldstein was rude to him at the bank and then we’d have sweet potato casserole. After getting shot down the first couple years, I gave up and took it in stride.
Tensions only boiled over twice. The first time was in response to a book he sent my dad, T. Lothrop Stoddard’s The Rising Tide of Color Against White World-Supremacy. What a title! You know, so many people focus on the contemporary hate that hardly anyone’s paying attention to the classics. Good to know ol’ Dave’s keeping the fire lit for 1920s eugenics.
Speaking of which, my brother and I tried to burn it. Our dad wouldn’t let us, not because he was a big fan of white world supremacy, but because he didn’t want us to set the house on fire. We never had any fun.
Far worse was the next year’s face-stuffing. We were shocked when he spoke favorably of a black former student of his, so my dad tried to get his whole POV on the race thing by asking what he’d do if he saw a black stranger on his lawn. “I’d ask him to get off, but I’d ask that of anybody.” Fair enough. What if it were a Jew?
Bad questions get bad answers, pa! “If it were a Jew, I’d shoot him.”
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…………. sooooooooooo, hoooooow bouuuuuut theeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…….. uhhhhhhhhhhh………” was all that came out of anyone’s mouth for the next ten minutes, because really, where the fuck do you go from there?
The postscript to this is that my brother and I are stealth-Jewish enough that he’d probably have to burn down a synagogue in penance if he ever found out how much bread he broke with our kind. We weren’t bar mitzvahed or anything, but somewhere down the line on my mom’s side we’re dirty Jew rats. Take that, guy I’m afraid of!
Anyway, the point of all this is that if you’re having trouble dealing with your overbearing family this Thanksgiving, just be glad that you haven’t been told you’d be murdered if your wacky uncle found out what you are. Unless he did, in which case you shouldn’t have come out on Thanksgiving. Have you ever seen a sitcom? Jesus. Also, you probably didn’t lose the three most important people in your life recently.
Either way, I don’t give a flying fuck how tough your flight was or that your parents’ internet is slow. Don’t be an asshole today. Suck on Christmas, see if I care, but today is the day to brush your whining aside—don’t spend it enumerating why not everything you feel entitled to is happening. Cram disgusting shit in your face without calling it disgusting; just for today, be okay with the fact that you have a lot and you can enjoy it without complaining about all that cholesterol that’s killing you. That’s what Cool Thanksgiving is all about.
Thanks. I still love you. How did that last paragraph happen.