Thanksgiving 2016

It’s a cloudy day in New England.  The family gathers for the annual dinner and opportunity to reconnect.  We arrive and get hugs all around except from the grandchildren who barely look up from their electronic devices, with a “Uh, Hi.” Then back to the chase or battle or grand theft felony games.  

Fine, we think, accepting the proffered bloody marys; we prefer adult conversation anyhow.  But there are warnings this post-election year.  The wrong guy has been elected and those of us who are in the majority must be careful not to talk about it.  “No politics! Period,” our host commands.  

Several members of the family voted for the wrong guy and will very likely be displaying some offensive righteousness, if allowed to enter a free-for-all discussion.  The majority, wallowing in moral superiority and fear, cannot bring ourselves to even acknowledge the reality of what has happened, because it can't happen here. Or so we thought.   How could the opposition not see the calamities that will surely fall upon all our heads?

We, who are proud to profess our tolerance of all human behavior, except what we call hate-speech, remain steadfastly intolerant of people who disagree with us on which candidate was worse.

No, we must not allow talk about it.  Like being at a wake, we shall not speak ill.  We make a list of approved topics – Mmm the stuffing is especially good this year. Is that a new painting hanging on the wall?  So, how about them Patriots?  How is that cure for nagging rectal itch working out?  Cold, isn’t it?  What a cute kitty,  (to grandkid:  Hows school going? What grade are you in now? Really?) and etcetera. 

(Speaking of grandkids, one grandpa I know tells me that when he would visit his grandkids, which was not often, they would ignore him and keep playing or watching their devices.  He decided to start giving them each a crisp twenty dollar bill.  He reports that now every time he comes in the door they compete with each other to run and give him a big hug.) 

       

But I digress.  

At the Thanksgiving gathering, we,  the majority, stand around, sipping our drinks, nervously waiting for the Alt-right contingent to arrive.  We hope they will not be gloating about the election outcome -- or worse, complaining about the not-my-president  riots protests.   And if we hear any talk about immigration, the wall, locking-her-up, extreme muslim terrorists, trade pacts, China, guns, or the revered cast of “Hamilton,” we will be furious.  The more we think about it, the more pissed-off we get.

Who do they think they are, lording it over us like that?  Those fucking deplorables!

We gather at the window as the hate wagon arrives with it’s gaudy Trump/Pence bumper sticker. 

“Hello everyone,” they greet us warmly. 

We see through that phoniness, and stab them with our steely knives.