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Thankstaking by Vaqas Bajwa

*I wrote this for absolutely no reason a few years ago just days before thanksgiving, i have no idea why.

Ah, the holidays. The affinity towards seemingly permanent staples of society such as unity, thoughtfulness, and empathy are reinforced (albeit for approximately two months after which, it’s okay to be an affable douche again, yes…affable). The hob knob of television reruns and the Spice Channel’s flagship film nominated for three adult film awards, “Skanksgiving: The Search for Plymouth Cock” played in infinite loop. The smell of pine sol cleaner mistakenly basted on the turkey which not only gives it a robust pine taste but induces Isopropyl alcohol-based vomiting and nausea (mum left her A-game along with her sense of free will years ago). The only holiday that ever came close to self-satisfaction for me was Martin Luther King Day in which I ate the 
most blatantly obscene avocados known to man, I called them Affirmative Acticados because each avocado was handpicked from the corner’s market based on size, texture, and intelligence (the bruised ones were sent to a third tier market). Thoughts aside, Thanksgiving had become one of the traditionalist hallmark holidays that defined not only family but self-identity through a poignantly crafted holiday adventure. 

My father was a delight; I respected his ability to impose a sense of authority and independency in the household by taking it upon himself to push me into the passenger seat of a moving Toyota Sequoia amidst a recent thanksgiving turkey “purchase.”

“Move, move, move,” he said with a twinkle of theft in his eye.

“ But father,” I spoke as my face hit the passenger side airbag, “that security guard only wished to chat with us, perhaps about our recent holiday plans?”

The security guard was a jolly fellow. I often times compared the 6’ 5’’ fellow to a thinner slightly Mormon Chris Cringle. Yet, this jolly bearer of Holiday delight packed a 9 millimeter sidearm which was a far cry from the well-know pedophiliac in red that preyed upon young boys and girls with gifts every December 25th. Shots rang in a flurry of deadly metallic snowflakes. Father told me that if I were to nab a flying flake with my tongue, an angel would get its wings. Despite the obvious cliché, the thought of heavenly charity prompted me to knowingly hold out my tongue. 

“Here Mr. Security guard sir, please, I would love to aid in the procurement of an Angel’s wings!”

However, luck had befallen me; I failed to obtain at least one measly slug upon my tongue; a pity, in comparison to my father’s triumph, who unbelievably gave 6 angels new pairs of wings. He shouted with joy, and gestured with exuberating glee often times pausing in religious solace. Father was so happy; he stormed out the driver side door shouting God’s name coupled with words I’ve never heard before (he must have quoted from religious parchment). I glanced at the watch on my wrist (which I recently obtained from a Kellogg’s Pop tart box that was half off at a dollar store because the driver of the shipment had head lice and may have infected the entire shipment) that read quarter past 13, apparently the Chinese manufacturer added another hour to the already packed 24 hour time period. Hardly an instrument of tardiness, father decided to share his recent achievement with a local passerby who oddly enough was inches away, parked at a stoplight. My father coaxed the man into providing transportation home. Father was increasingly absorbed by holiday tithing that he wanted to share his gleeful disposition with what appeared to be geriatric. The elderly man’s precision was so great that he surpassed my father’s record of angel wings by 2, amassing 8 pairs. He lied on the street; methinks the amount of generosity tired the poor bugger (he hardly moved an inch) into a state of existential bliss. 

My father, the titular kindred spirit of the holidays, bestowed upon me a foster family of 8 years… I’ve since changed my name to Vaqas Bajwa…