Congestion means more than a cold—it means traffic, noise, lines, crowded buses, subways, airports—where the mass of humanity migrates home. As the population grows, problems increase—rainforests burn, the oceans rise, pollution reaches an all-time high—and the most intelligent species on the planet, is killing everything in sight.

If people were indifferent, we would be better off—but they find meaning in complaining—protesting what they don’t want—never considering, they, themselves, might be undesirable. The thought, is too much for them to bear, some get there, and 9 times out of 10, their solution is a half-hearted attempt. If redemption is real, they don’t want it, but they are willing to go to a Thanksgiving meal—to fulfill the painful ritual, where an electronic saw is used to carve the turkey—rather than the real thing.

The table is set. It’s ready for family and friends. Old folks with cataracts and fake hips get first choice. They fumble for their false teeth from their water glasses, and pop their munchers in—part machine—part flesh-eating human—and the bird doesn’t stand a chance.

Mom and dad assume the same emotional demeanor—when one is happy, the other is in good spirits, and when one is sad, the other is morose. It is a torture to be home during the holidays, while the children eat, and the adults savage each other with gossip.

“Has Jody come back to God?” My mother asked.

“I’m afraid not. She’s still living with her boyfriend,” my brother-in-law said.

“Is this the boyfriend who isn’t the brightest light on the Christmas tree?”

“No. She had a kid with him, and moved on to a guy who works at Home Depot. Her daughter wants to be a boy, and she wants to be a man.”

“In the latter days, there will be a great falling away,” my mother said.

“It will be far better for those who were burned by sulfur in Sodom and Gomora, than for those who reject the faith,” my father said through mashed potatoes.

“Do you think the end of the world is here?”

“As sure, as I’m sure,” my dad said.

There were strange lights shining through the living room window—red and green, and a flash. The animated expressions on my parent’s faces went dead. The children turned monstrous. My sister had dead eyes, and my brother-in-law and myself looked at each other in horror.

“What happened?” I asked.

“It’s like their souls left them! They’re zombies!”

Then grandma bit into grandpa, and removed a piece of his shoulder, along with his checkered shirt.

“Let’s get out of here!”

“What just happened?” My brother-in-law asked.

“The rapture, I think. Their souls left their bodies.”

“What does that mean? Are we going to hell?”

“Looks like it! We still have some time, if we can avoid being eaten.”

“That’s the worst way to die. I’ll set myself on fire before that happens.”

“You might have to—now, let’s get out of here!”

6 thoughts on “A Different Kind of Thanksgiving Feast

  1. Which people are you talking about who protest what they don’t want?

    I know this post is about thanksgiving, but a lot of people protest for racial justice or climate change etc and still go to thanksgiving because they need or want to be around family or loved ones

    Liked by 1 person

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