Thanksgiving is dead

The quintessential American holiday, the great celebration of thanks for our land’s generous bounty is no longer. Yes, Thanksgiving is dead. Its pitiful corpse revealed itself to me on Sunday, in our local grocery store. I had popped out briefly to pick up a few staples, when at the height of Church chucking- out time, I inadvertently found myself surrounded by hundreds of Sunday-best clad shoppers simultaneously rushing to fill their grocery carts to the brim, with the makings of their upcoming feast. Always curious to see what other people put in their baskets, keen to image the post grocery shopping sequel to a person’s life, I took a peek in my fellow shoppers’ carts. It is then that I witnessed the evidence with badly concealed horror: The beautiful feast had died a painful death at the soft, manicured hand of the American housewife. It was left to drown in a vat of Campell’s condensed cream of celery, canned jellied cranberry sauce, choking on stove-top stuffing mix. Its spirit starved, looking at pasty mounds of 49 cts a pound, enzyme-injected turkeys and hot-pink spiral cut hams. Its aroma vanished under miles of shrink-wrapped, massively produced fruit-free pies. And thanks to the embalming virtues of America’s favorite whipped topping, the great American feast has finally been laid to rest, forever preserved under a sweet white fluffy shroud of corn syrup, wax and condom lube (Polysorbate 60).