Eat up, America

A man-child pulls his throne up to the table. The big boys and girls table.

He pours himself a glass of fantasy land and puts his elbows on the table.

He wipes his mouth with the tie of the young man seated next to him.

And he grabs some hot buns.

Nobody has more respect for buns than I do, he exclaims.

He carves the turkey and places the dark meat out of the way.

All that’s left is to say grace. As if that’s going to help.

The man-child starts dishing out portions. Large if you’re within elbow-rubbing distance, smaller if you are not. None if you are black, Jewish, Muslim, or a woman of child-bearing age.

Mexicans did not get the invitation at all.

His conversation is a swirl of the nonsensical. Nobody dares contradict him, except him.

You know that’s not what he said just yesterday. He has the memory of your drunken uncle.

He slobbers all over everyone, including the gracious hosts and hostesses who gave this Alfred E. Neuman-esque character a place at the table.

Hell, they gave him the table.

He says, I wasn’t present at the first Thanksgiving. I just share the white man’s values of those days.

Pass the rape and pillaging.

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