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Did you ever see that guy in Puppetry of the Penis do that thing where he twists his gadget so it looks like a turkey neck? It's quite fascinating. The Black Table attempted this move last Thanksgiving, but it resulted in a ruptured testicle and an indecent exposure charge. Lesson learned.

Our ladies, on the other hand, don't need enormous, frighteningly nimble shlongs to celebrate this holiday. Check that -- Our ladies don't *have* enormous, frighteningly nimble shlongs to celebrate this holiday.

Either way, they are thankful for some things.

Happy Thanksgiving, mighty Black Tablers. Save room for pie -- we're taking the next two days off.



The one thing we probably all dread most about Thanksgiving is the office party. The gossip from last year's scandal-fest has barely died down and already it's time for big bowls of Thanksgiving punch balanced on the copier and the soused secretary leading off-key songs in her tacky Thanksgiving earrings. Everybody waits til the last minute to come up with a good Thanksgiving costume. Many are tired of the divisive arguments over whether Thanksgiving deserves a mandated day off. Couples feel the pressure to get the right Thanksgiving gifts for each other -- are flowers and chocolate or a tasteful sweater enough, or is it time for jewelry? Singles face the confetti-strewn anxiety of midnight on Thanksgiving, left to wonder if no kiss when the clock turns means they'll be alone til Thanksgiving comes around again. There's the relentless increase of candles on your Thanksgiving cake, that oppressive reminder that you just keep getting older. The silly Thanksgiving-colored beer and pretzels. The pressure of keeping track of who you owe a Thanksgiving card, and who you can cross off the list because they didn't send one last year. Braving the icy sidewalks to sing Thanksgiving carols to neighbors who are bemused at best. Staying up late to hide Thanksgiving eggs for kids who could care less.

Of course, the worst thing about Thanksgiving is the commercialization. The merchandising that starts months before -- and earlier each year -- bombards you from the drugstore, the department stores, the dairy aisles. The Thanksgiving decorations on the street and in office buildings, even on tax-funded government property, and the Thanksgiving songs that are piped in everywhere and continue to ring in your head while you're trying to battle the pre-Thanksgiving crowds out of the mall parking lot, vowing again that *next* year you'll do your Thanksgiving shopping earlier. Thank God Thanksgiving comes only once a year.

Sandra Barron would never disparage Thanksgiving, yet she continues to deny the rumor that she's dating a pilgrim.



Since I'm not much of a Thanksgiving cook, I have to do the dishes with my father. Dad and I together, cleaning and packaging up leftovers, drinking beers and doing the dishes -- sounds fantastic, doesn't it? It is-- except for the farting. He'll just fart repeatedly and instead of saying "excuse me," he'll say "whooah…," or "phew!" or "Good God, what did she put in that!" Some years I like to fart with my Dad while we do the dishes, but usually I want to get the hell out of there and smoke a Thanksgiving doobie on the back porch with my disgusting brother. And that's what Thanksgiving is all about really, the marijuana.

Kathie Fries's farts smell like fresh cut grass.


Tracy Weiss

There’s a lot to hate about Thanksgiving. I hate poorly made stuffing that I have to pretend to enjoy. I hate overblown parades that have nothing to do with the history of the holiday. I hate that the Lions always lose. I hate people in pilgrim hats.

But what I hate most about Thanksgiving is going home.

On Wednesday night before the day of thanks, the twenty-something population of greater West Bloomfield, Michigan gathers at a pool hall called Roosevelt’s. A dumpy little bar in a strip mall, aptly named for the overlooked president, Teddy -- Roosevelt’s calls to anyone of bar age for a night of drunkenness and gossip.

Sound like fun?

Well, I consume as much liquor as physically possible and demand that my underage brother drive each one of my friends home. I attempt to deflect the obvious, yet inevitable seduction from my “on call” fuck friend.

Everyone goes to see “real” friends in a one-stop shopping atmosphere. Instead you are cornered by some jack-off who you never liked in high school. Conversations surround if\who you’re dating and how much weight so and so has gained\lost since the last year. Everyone gushes over your move to _________ city and superficially inquires about your job. The weird part?

Everyone hates the fucking place… yet everyone goes. Year after year, I don’t want to show my face at “Asshole Fest.” But I always go. We are powerless against the call of the shallow.

I cannot wait.

I hate it all right… Hate to love it.

Tracy Weiss, newly crowned workaholic, is especially thankful for popcorn. Thanks, Injuns.


Aileen Gallagher

For the past couple years, the table at Thanksgiving dinner is set for three. Mom. Dad. Me. The other siblings are too far away, or their families too young to make the journey. And really, it's just a day. But since it's just the three of us, Dad and I one day suggested that we go out for dinner instead of spending all of our time together in different rooms preparing food. (That's a lie. Mom and I are in the kitchen and The Dad is watching football in the other room. But I hate ripping up a loaf of bread for the stuffing. It's the most inane chore and Mom always tells me the pieces are either too big or too small.) So now we are one of those families who go out to dinner. And yes, it does feel like we don't sufficiently care about each other enough to make a meal together. I've bought what Norman Rockwell was selling. Going out does make sense -- Thanksgiving is all about wasting food, but there's too much wasted with only three of us. But it's so sad to see all those young, able-bodied families eating together at the place I go with my parents. Those people should be at someone's house with the matriarch bringing the turnips (with bacon on top) and the kids sitting at some crappy folding table in the other room. That's Thanksgiving. Going out is for the lazy people. Or the lonely ones.

Aileen Gallagher, author of three children's books, (and another one, about muckraking, on the way!) writes Weekly Rundown every Friday.


Jennie Dorris

While everyone else gets up for the football, I get up the day after Thanksgiving for the wishbone. It sits on the counter on a paper towel, dried. Small. My brother Michael and I always ate breakfast, eyeing it, deciding on our wish.

And every year, I lose.

It was the reason for my first failed marriage at 5-years old. Despite eating a shitload of carrots it made my eyes fail and become covered by thick, drooping glasses at 12. It made my teeth collide and push each other to the point of needing braces. It made my hands shake and me lose first chair glockenspiel to Eric Nelson.

Two years ago I lost a business. A year ago I lost a boy. Every year the bone cracks, my eyes open and my portion is comically small and shattered.

It's ruined Thanksgiving dinner for me. I eat my turkey with a dry mouth, thinking of my wish. Of course I persist. And this year, the wish is bigger than ever.

Jennie Dorris is the prettiest thing in Colorado. She is also publisher of Knot Magazine.



This year at Thanksgiving time, I am most appreciative for the strong emotional bond and friendship that I have developed with Black Table Managing Editor, A.J. Daulerio.

A.J. Daulerio is easily one of the sweetest men I have ever known. For example, at least once a week we play a really fun game that he taught me called "Scary Uncle." It works like this: I'll be sleeping in my bed when all of a sudden some guy (well, A.J. Daulerio, actually) will sneak into my room wearing sweatpants. He then will lay down next to me and ask permission to hug me. Then I shrug my shoulders and say I'm not sure. He says it will be OK, and then he "hugs" me. Then I say something like "Ohhhh, Uncle A.J.! No one's ever touched me THERE before!"

He is also very nice when we play "Custard Stand." In this game he straddles my chest and then I yank on him (the custard machine) until it comes out. He even lets me decide which part of me should be the cone. Oh, and he wears a paper hat and yells "who wants custard? Custard for the lady!"

A.J. Daulerio is also really nice when he gives me a "Smokey Tornado." Again, he straddles my chest except in this scenario he lights his pubic hair on fire when he's about to "produce." Then, I finish him off with my mouth and I use a small electronic fan to put out the fire.

"Bowling Night" is another big favorite. He dresses up in his bowling outfit (shoes and all) and grabs his bowling bag and heads out the door. As he's about to walk out, he notices that the bag feels light. I'm in another room and I yell out something like "don't you have to practice before you hit the lanes?" He usually comes back to the bedroom where I am stretched out on the bed wearing a short silk robe with curlers in my hair. He then says to me "well, how am I going to practice without a ball?" I then say, "use me!" He then proceeds to penetrate my three holes. Like a bowling ball! Afterwards I give him his ball back and we go bowling.

Anyway, as you can see, this Thanksgiving I have much to be grateful for in the loving friendship I have developed with A.J. Daulerio. Like Jennifer Lopez said in Gigli, it's turkey time. Gobble, gobble! Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Amy Blair sucks.



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