Tag Archives: Thanksgiving

My Holiday Roundup

5 Jan

My holidays were a resounding success. Magnificent. Maleficent? No, not maleficent. That was just me using a fancy word that I didn’t quite understand–just like I did on Christmas morning:

“Dig in, Kyle.” My mother said, gesturing over the expanse of food on our counter.

“Mmm,” I said, looking over the glazed chicken. “Paltry!” My mother ran from the room, her face in her hands.

I meant to say poultry, meaning chicken. I actually said paltry, meaning “ridiculously or insultingly small.”

Thanksgiving was a warm, family oriented holiday for me. My family around me, I basked in their glow. We had turkey, stuffing, all the fixings. That night, we were all around the fire, some of us snacking on the last bits of pumpkin pie, some drinking hot chocolate out of mugs, clasped tightly in cold and eager hands.

“Hey everybody, I have an idea,” I say. All the air leaves the room. No one makes eye contact with me. “I have an idea. Grandma,” I gesture toward my grandma. She tries to act like she doesn’t hear me, but her eyes meet mine. I assume that now that it’s obvious my grandma heard me call her name, she’d ask me what my idea is. False.

“Oops! The old bladder’s a-tickin’.” She gets up and shuffles toward the bathroom.

“You old bitch,” I say. I figure if no one is going to listen to me, I might as well live it up.

New Year’s was pretty much run of the mill, though. I drank a flask of whiskey, kissed a dude I haven’t seen since high school, and got in an authentic Real World-style drunken shouting-match with an potted plant about something I can’t quite remember. There was one outstanding moment, however.

“Who you gonna kiss at midnight, Kyle?” My friend Derek asks, his female for the evening in tow.

“Well, who are YOU gonna kiss at midnight, Kyle?” I ask. I am terrifically drunk.

“All right, well this conversation is over,” Derek says, walking away. He comes back moments later with the girl’s best friend. “This is Catrina,” he says. “She thinks you’re really cute.”

“WELL,” I say, swaying as if on a ship, “She has a face that looks like mine.” I pause to point at my face and then hers and then mine again, “And I look like furkin–fuckin’–Shia LeBouf. Why would I want to kiss Shia LeBouf?” I look Catrina up and down. “–Even if he has a set of–” Here was a brilliant flash, a sharp pain at my temple, and the last of my memories from New Year’s Eve.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

Advertisements

Shanksgiving Day.

2 Dec

I’m drunk. Does that give you any clue as to how great my Thanksgiving was? YEA YOU DON’T KNOW! *swings wildly with right. falls down. starts to cry. apologizes. mentions about being friends forever.* Anyway, You wanna hear about my Thanksgiving? Of course you do.

I wake up to the familiar smell of turkey. I love turkey. Every Thanksgiving I sleep with a turkey on my head. Another Irion Thanksgiving tradition is for my family to spend much of the night prior trying to find my turkey-helmet so they can keep me from sleeping with my head in it. The next day, I wake up and try to get my dad to put my turkey in with the one we’re already cooking.

“Come on, there’s room for both!”

“Kyle, that turkey smells rotten. You smell horrible.”

“You smell horrible.”

“Throw the turkey away or I’m going to purposely burn this meal and blame it on you.”

“But dad! You can’t!” My father reaches over to the temperature knob on the oven and slowly starts to turn it.

“Okay, okay! I’ll throw it away.”

I throw it away.

Next up on my Thanksgiving agenda is a lovely time watching the parade. The Macy’s Parade never ceases to entertain me. I love watching B-list celebrities lip sync songs I’ve never heard from Broadway shows that I’m not even sure exist. Like this, Perez Hilton singing Forever isn’t in My Lunch Box, from his upcoming musical Cut-off Overalls Make My Butt Look Happy.

After a few hours of that stuff, I usually take a shower and get ready for my family to come over. This year, though, my family is doing something a little different. This year, we’re to my grandmother’s to have Thanksgiving dinner with my extended family.

A natural showman, I love to enter rooms with a bang. I have my brother go in a few minutes before I do in order to warm up my family with a few jokes. He also sets a small boom box on the living room end table. As he walks in, I think someone sees me and waves. I act like I don’t see them, pulling out my phone and pretending to answer a call.

“Yes, Mr. President,” I say.

After the crowd is sufficiently warmed up and ready to be wowed, I give Nick the signal (Banging loudly on the front door and screaming the word “Now”). He flips on the stereo to our pre-determined entry-track, Clay Aiken’s If I Was Invisible. I turn the knob and the door and push it forward a few inches, then kick it open.

“Give some thanks for ROCK!” I scream, covered in feathers imitating a turkey’s plumage. I also have a waddle under my chin, but it just looks like a pair of fire-red testicles, so I take that off pretty soon after entering the room. Everyone claps unenthused, appeasing me in an attempt to get me to stop. A fan of any kind of applause, even the fake kind, I bow graciously and remove my costume.

Lunch was delicious. My family was delightful company. The day was beautiful and the Cowboys won. Also, dad didn’t hit anybody this year and grandpa didn’t try to convince everyone how his lawn mower was amphibious by driving it into a lake when no one was looking.

Happy Late Thanksgiving.

Black Friday.

29 Nov

It’s the biggest shopping day of the year. Millions upon millions of dollars will be spent by millions upon millions of people–all trying to get the perfect gift for somebody. It’s a nice thought, really. So many people enduring so much for their loved ones. However, as we all know, the road to hell is paved in good intentions–and great bargains.

My brother, Nick, and I arrive at Target at around 5am. It’s cold, around 40 degrees. There are already a few hundred people in a line stretching across the front of the store. We take our place at the end of the line, which is by this time twenty or thirty yards from the entrance. CAN’T WAIT FOR THE BARGAINS!

Six minutes pass. This sucks. I want to go home.

I hear a man screaming in the distance, I get to my feet  and peek around the crowd to see who it’s coming from.

I’m pleasantly surprised to see that Target has employed the services of local madman Jeepers McGinley, who has abandoned his usual “The End Is NEAR” sign to make a quick buck. (I later learned that this Jeepers was in no way affiliated with the Target Corporation and was, in fact, trying to be ironic. It was completely lost on me, as I bought every single item on that board.)

The manager is seen approaching the doors. People get to their feet and quietly shuffle as close to the front of the line as they can. There’s an audible rise in tension as aggressive murmurs sprout so ubiquitously that it seems the air itself is whispering its appeals for haste. I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. Then I hear the sound of a cannon ball being lowered into a cannon’s shaft. This confuses me and I take a moment to look for the weirdo who brought the cannon.

Ah, okay. This guy.

I begin to ask the guy where he got his cannon, because I also have a few thousand dollars that I’d like to spend on absolute bull shit, but before I can get it out, my brother brusquely grabs my arm.

“It’s go time.”

“What?” He’s started pulling me forward. I begin to hear screaming in the distance.

“Keep your knees high. It’ll keep you from tripping over the fallen.”

“Wait, the fallen? Like people?!”

“Yes Kyle, fallen people.”

“Ah, okay.” I take a second to slip on my mob cleats and continue pressing forward. As we enter the store, the sound of a cannon firing rings out with a sound like the thunder of a storm that’s just overhead.

“Was that a cannon?” Nick asks.

“Yea. It belongs to this guy who looks a lot like Jennifer Lopez with a mustache.” I look back toward the entrance. “There’s no way he didn’t kill at least five or six people. You think we should call the cops or someth–”

DEXTER DVD’S!” Nick yells. He runs up to the display, but it’s blocked by a woman and her cart, which is already full of goods. Nick grabs the cart and pushes it as hard as he can down the aisle.

“My cart!” the woman yells, and begins to run after her rolling presents.

“Ah crap. I already have this season,” Nick says, puts the DVD back, and begins to walk towards the clothes. In the distance, the woman seems to have fallen down and is being drug by her carts powerful momentum.

More explosions can be heard from across the store. I remark at how quickly that tiny man was able to mobilize his cannon. Then my mind stumbles across a horrific possibility: What if there’s more than one cannon in the store? As I finish this thought, several Target cops in full riot gear march past. A gallon of milk flies past them and explodes at my feet. At the opening of the jug is a rag with its end burnt. It seems someone didn’t understand how molotov cocktails work. I grab a bottle of wine, tear off a portion of my shirt, put it in the bottle and light the end. Then I throw the bottle back to where the milk came from, so they can see how to do it.

“Look out!” Nick yells. He pulls me into the women’s clothes department just as a flurry of flaming arrows strikes the ground where we had been standing. “It’s begun,” he says. Quietly, my brother removes a home made knife from his back pocket. He cuts a line down the middle of his hand and then smears the blood across his face. “Buyer beware,” he says in a gravelly tone.

“Shopper’s delight,” I respond, laughing smugly and raising my fist for a fist bump. My brother shakes his head, gently pushes my fist down and hands me his knife. I pick up a nearby package of Hershey’s chocolate syrup, cut it open and smear its contents on my face.

“Let’s move. I need a new sweater,” Nick says, scanning the area for threats.

“I’m getting Wesley Up for Christmas. You think we got a shot at it?”

“DVD’s? It’ll be a blood bath. You ready?”

“Let’s shop.”

We break away toward the electronics–leaving civilization and full prices at our backs.

To be continued.

%d bloggers like this: