A Mute Thanksgiving

We cannot spend all of our time thinking about the liberal hordes that menace civilization, even if they are political stage hogs, so I offer this early Thanksgiving insight into a much smaller political unit--the family. Enjoy!

They came. They ate. They conquered. Who are they? Relatives, among them the Great Preying Mother-in-Law (GPM) followed by the most notable of the lesser creatures: the Muted Man (father-in-law), the Laughing Jack L. (brother-in-law), the Warbling Whiner (his wife), and the Bandihoots (their kids). They had all come for a great Thanksgiving and expected, at the very least, the Meal-of-the-Century.

When all had finally arrived, food streamed out of the kitchen. Some platters went unappreciated, especially by the Bandihoots (little vermin!). Ignoring her obviously defective third generation, the GPM inspected everything before eating, nose occasionally lifting in disdain, but eating it none the less. The muted man made sloppy noises of delight as he cleaned his plate...probably his first real food in years. The laughing Jack L. entertained us with a constant stream of improbable stories, as well as with his endlessly open mouth, a rotating food show which sometimes rotated its way onto the carpet (Reminder to Self: Send cleaning bill for dining room carpet to Jack L.). The Warbling Whiner, thin as a reed, picked her way through the meal. Do men really prefer such skeletons for wives? There's nothing to grab, and surely such fragile beings cannot cook. No wonder the Bandihoots were obliterating the house instead of sitting at the table, their little brains had been starved since birth if not in the uterus. The hostess had one profane thought as she stared at the cackling, preening, tumbling flock in front of her, "too bad it’s illegal to force feed fowl, or should I say, foul creatures."

Eventually, the holiday was over. The debris of rabid feasting laid strewn across tables, counters, sinks, coffee tables, and even the floor, which the dog and cat were happily licking. The requisite diplomatic conversation—polite, gossipy, business- or sports-oriented--had been held in the required tone for the required duration with the required relatives. The mind-numbing effect of watching and playing endless football, coupled with the sleep-inducing properties of drink and tryptophan, had finally done in the men. The Bandihoots were also losing steam, and The Muted Man, who never made a sound all day, now snored gently in his chair.

Now the Great Preying Mother-in-Law was calling, so the flock slowly revived themselves. Amid contented calls of "it was so nice to see you," "where did the time go," and "we don't do this often enough," they assembled near the exit to leave. A strong, sucking wind drew through the house and across the driveway as the wildlife swept out the front door fully fed. Thank goodness…they’re leaving…someone else will have to feed them next time. As car motors started, I turned. The Muted Man was slowly making his way out the door, coming towards me. In the quiet, he gave me a big hug and in his quivering old voice softly said, “thank you.” My voice began to quiver, too, so I just hugged him back. Note to Self: Christmas migration is coming soon. Have it at your house again.