turkey day. test of human endurance.

Dear irby + ian:


I'm in a jam and don't know where to turn. Thanksgiving is coming up, and there is a source of friction that threatens to spoil our family gathering. Each year, my aunt - I'll call her Griselda - takes on the task of baking ALL the pies for our Thanksgiving dessert. Now, without meaning to blow my own horn, I am an excellent baker - people always rave about my baking, and pies are a real speciality of mine. Griselda's pies? Well… they're not the best. Several of my cousins have approached me about baking pies for this Thanksgiving, but I know that Griselda - who is quite elderly and lives alone - really enjoys this tradition of baking for the family. How can I broach this topic without hurting her feelings? - Filled With Fretfulness

Easy fix here:

Quit being a selfish whore-cow, Whore-Cow. Griselda is at death's door - or at least in death's driveway - so cut her a fucking break. Jesus. It's fucking PIE - how bad can it be? Are there broken lightbulbs in there? Or anthrax? Does Griselda just take a quivery old-lady dump in a frozen crust and tell you it's French Silk? No. So shut up and eat some fucking pie.

OR, quit being such a fucking coward and TELL her: "Griselda, your pies taste like ass. I'm baking this year." Then plant your hand on her withered old face, push her to the ground, and hiss "Bitch, I will vent your crust if bring any of your nasty-ass bush league bullshit to Thanksgiving this year. You hear me?"

And listen, future reference: any time somebody says "I don't mean to blow [or 'toot' - eds.] my own horn" that is EXACTLY what they mean to do. Except they don't have the nads to be up front about it. What you MEAN to say is: "Tell you what. I am fucking AMAZING at baking pies. I will stack my pies up against any Martha Stewart motherfucker you wanna throw at 'em and they will fucking CRUSH every time. My pies? My pies are the SHIT, son. You wanna step to my pies? They will fuck you up for real." Instead you PRETEND you don't believe this; you PRETEND that your pies don't have lowest-hanging dick in the pie locker room; you PRETEND that you don't bake Tyson pies that will bite the fucking ear clean off any other pies dumb-assed enough to step into the ring with them. You adopt this phony-ass "I'll leave it to you to decide" pose.

Fuck that noise. You bake up a shitload of pies, you kick the motherfucking door in on Thanksgiving Day, and you announce like the town fucking crier "Bitches! May I have the attention of all the bitches up in here? YOU! Bitch in the kitchen! Stop basting! Listen up! The motherfucking PIES have arrived. Any other pies that are fucking stoopid enough to roll up in here are on fucking NOTICE! This year, there shall BE no broke-dick Griselda bullshit on this motherfucking sideboard. This motherfucking sideboard is OWNED by THESE motherfucking pies right here. Made by ME. This is MY PIE HOUSE."

You get the idea. You gotta burst in like if Apollo Creed fucked Kid Rock and they had an ego baby.

But I seriously doubt you got the guts it takes to own Pie Thunderdome. Since you have demonstrated yourself to be a wet little skidmark who not only hates the happiness of others, but doesn't have the fucking courage of her shitty, petty little convictions to quit pretending this is not so.

I got news for you: the only goddamn reason your family discusses Piegate with you is that you are the passive-aggressive little puke stain that keeps bringing that shit up. Your cousins asked you to bake fucking pies this year to a) throw you a bone in sad little fail parade of your life, and b) shut you the fuck up. They all love Griselda more, would way rather spend their time in her company, and have no fucking issue with her pies. But you are such a needling little wad of shut up-less displeasure, you wore everybody down, and they - not because they give an ant-shit about any of this, but to at last draw the curtain of silence on your pissy little peeve play - halfheartedly went along. They were INDULGING you, Whore-Cow. If you could harness the power of the rolling eyes in your wake, you could light up Toledo for a week.

But you know something? You should totally savor this stunning fucking victory. You should. Take a victory lap around the dinner table. Trash talk old Griselda. You horrible little ass wart. You're like a fag hag who hates fags, or something. What kind of miserable little panty snarl steps on the handful of joys that remain for an old-ass lady in her waning days? Seriously. How do you live with yourself? When your nieces and nephews come up and show you their turkey pictures they're so proud of, do you just go: "That's a hand. You're not fooling anybody. Go fetch me another scotch." And rattle the cubes in your glass as you toss their construction paper masterpiece in the fireplace where it erupts in a hope-starved whisper.

I suppose we should be thankful to you. For providing us a reminder that people are worthless as the peanuts from a hobo turd and that we're fucking retarded for ever hoping for anything better from any member of this race of nad-stomping killjoy cock-blockers. Fuck. Fuck you guys. Fuck all this. What even is the goddamn point of trying?