WORST… THANKSGIVING… EVER!

EDITOR’S NOTE: We asked Mercury readers to share their most
disturbing, disastrous, and disgusting Thanksgiving memories for our
“Worst Thanksgiving Ever” essay contest—and boy, did they
deliver! Though close to 100 entries were received, there can be only
one winner, and that’s Santi Elijah Holley, who wins $200 for his
horrifying memories. Also included are our top three runners-up! So
loosen your belt, take a shot of Pepto-Bismol, and “enjoy” the worst…
Thanksgivings… EVER.

WINNER!

TURKEY DAY (A THANKSGIVING MEMORY)
by Santi Elijah Holley

My old man approached the bird slowly and told me to get
ready. The blade, longer than my forearm, trembled precariously in my
hand. The old man took one step toward the bird, then another, but the
turkey didn’t move an inch. It only stared at the old man as though it
were watching some strange and uninteresting performance. Then,
suddenly aware of what was going on, the bird raised its head, puffed
out its chest, and lifted its tail feathers like a battle flag.

“Get ready!” the old man shouted, but I couldn’t tell if he was
addressing the turkey or me.

He made a quick dive toward the bird, but it managed to jump clear
of his grasp. The bird then began hopping from side to side, like a
prizefighter, jabbing the air with its beak, while a terrible cackle
emanated from somewhere deep within its throat.

“Damn it,” he said. “Slippery son of a bitch.”

The turkey, cackling and shaking its bright, bristling feathers,
danced around my old man. As he crouched down low and raised his hands
up to his chest, preparing to make another dive, the bird all at once
lunged toward him and sank its beak into his thigh. The old man howled,
then unleashed a long succession of unfamiliar but nonetheless
harrowing words. He staggered backward and fell to the ground. The bird
continued to pounce on him, stabbing him with its beak and emitting
those awful, guttural noises.

“Get this thing off me,” the old man shouted. “Goddamn it, boy, come
slit this thing’s throat, already!”

I’d already dropped the knife, however, and I was now screaming and
crying and running around in circles, certain that after this beast had
eaten my old man it would come for me.

Somehow the old man was able to crawl, while under assault, toward
the blade on the ground. He was like some mortally wounded soldier,
hoping to at least take his enemy out with him. He finally reached the
knife, closed his fingers around the handle, and, with a wild and
heroic cry, plunged the blade deep into the bird’s breast. The bird
threw its head back to the sky and screamed. He stabbed the turkey over
and over, cursing like a madman, while bloody feathers drifted up into
the air and slowly descended to the dirt.

When it was all over, my old man sat on the ground, gasping for air,
with the blade still clutched in his fist. He was covered from head to
toe in blood and feathers. The turkey—or, what remained of
it—lay in a large heap at the old man’s feet. I was still running
around in circles, weeping uncontrollably for the vision of Hell I’d
just been forced to witness.

This was the first year we had chicken for Thanksgiving.

OUR
“WORST THANKSGIVING EVER” RUNNERS-UP!

TWO BOYFRIENDS, ONE MOM
by Stephanie Lane

Okay, so here it goes: When I was about 16 years old I had an
early Thanksgiving dinner with a friend and her family, due to the fact
that my mom was a drug-infected tweeker. After dinner my mom had left
word that she was having a late turkey dinner at the house around 9 pm.
(See? Tweeker!) So my friend and I went from her house in Northeast
Portland to my house in Felony Flats. When we arrived, the front door
was locked. So we went around back to try the sliding glass door.

What we saw next was probably the most disgusting, vile act we had
ever witnessed.

There was my mother with her two (yes, two) boyfriends having a
threesome in the kitchen, on the table, next to ALL THE FOOD!!!!!!!!!!
(Even worse, I knew she would expect us to eat the leftovers!) After
recovering from the shock, I tapped on the glass. My mother looked up,
saw us standing there, and completely freaked out! She started
screaming that I was spying on her and that I was trying to seduce her
boyfriends. Whipping the sliding door open (still buck naked), she
informed me she was “entertaining guests” and that I had to leave if we
weren’t going to join her little turkey orgy.

Needless to say, that was the month I moved out of her house for
good.

THERE WASN’T A PLUNGER
by Zach Hull

I was excited, nervous, and determined to be on my best
behavior. I was in high school, sharing a family Thanksgiving at my
girlfriend’s house.

Her extended family was there for the day—including Uncle
Dwight, the favorite uncle. I had arrived early to help out, but
since there wasn’t much for me to do, Dwight took me out on the deck
where he gave me a beer.

I wasn’t much of a drinker in high school. 

After our second beer it was time to go inside and sit down. I was
buzzed. It was a traditional Thanksgiving—turkey, stuffing,
cranberry jelly, Brussels sprouts, and homemade rolls. Everyone had a
glass of wine and I had one too.

About half an hour into the meal I excused myself, went to the
bathroom, shut the door, and took an enormous dump. Feeling better, I
buttoned up and flushed. The dump didn’t go down.  

I looked around for the plunger that everyone keeps in their
bathroom. No plunger. Maybe my girlfriend’s mom put it away for
the occasion. I thought about going back to the dining room and
confessing. I also thought about just leaving it
there. Instead, I took off my shirt.

I got down on the floor and put my hand into the bowl. I started to
push on the dump, making my hand into a kind of inverted shovel,
helping it down. I was making progress. I could see some bubbles coming
up around the dump. It was gross, but I was getting there.

My girlfriend’s sister screamed, “Oh My God!” when she walked into
the bathroom. I hadn’t locked the door. The family heard her and
came, more or less in unison, rushing in as well.

I wanted to yank my hand out of the toilet, but it was full of shit,
so I didn’t. Instead I knelt there, embracing the toilet bowl, with my
shirt hanging on the back of the door, my back to the family.
 

The silence lasted for a long, long time.

THE SLIPPERY TURKEY
by Sam Obey

I was spending Thanksgiving at my ex-girlfriend’s parents’
house. And since they’re all Catholic Japanese, being a non-Asian,
liberal Jew didn’t bode well for me.  Also, since much of her
extended family would be there, this was probably the only chance I’d
get to make a good impression. I thought it’d be nice to have a
fellow American at the table to help take the attention off of me, so I
asked her parents to allow a friend of mine to come. They did, but only
under the condition that he be extremely well behaved. I assured
them this would be the case.

So my friend shows up from the airport and joins us. He quietly
informs me that the plane ride left him queasy, but assures me the
worst is over. I imagine him projectile vomiting on the turkey, and
shiver. 

Dinner commences and we are asked to get the turkey.  We go to
the kitchen, and my friend lifts the bird, admiring its beauty. We
proceed to the table but stop for a second in the threshold of the
kitchen. I look out at the faces of the family; gazes fixed firmly on
the bird, the centerpiece of this dinner, the main fucking event (one
lady actually clapped). For a second there was a kind of surreal
harmony, time froze, and I felt like dinner would be a
success—like the awesomeness of the turkey would prevail and keep
us from embarrassing ourselves. 

It might have, but my friend accidentally dropped the turkey… on a
baby.

The drippings showered the infant and the lap of her mother, who had
been cradling her, and the turkey itself kind of bounced off the baby’s
head. At the time I thought the scene would’ve made YouTube
history.

A shitstorm ensued. I stood there, dumbfounded, looking around.
Everyone was freaking out in their own special way and my friend looked
like he was finally going to puke. Strangely, the baby was just
lying there on the table—all covered in turkey bits,
laughing. Luckily the juices were only warm and not scalding, so I
guess to her it was a pretty pleasant experience. The turkey lay
on the ground where it had fallen, forgotten.

Things were so bad I decided to make like the baby and
laugh—which got me slapped by the baby-mama, and landed us out on
the street, drinking.  At the end of it all my friend finally
puked.

But much like the Thanksgiving legend itself—which apparently
ends with the pilgrims and the Native Americans getting
along—this story too has a happy ending. In a miraculous
display of forgiveness, the girl’s parents invited us to dinner a few
days later, admitted that the ordeal was an accident, and I felt a nice
sense of closure.

I also never saw these people again.