When we were young, our elementary school teachers told us about Thanksgiving. We were curious. How did it start? Why is there turkey? How come gravy tastes so good? Our educators did what they could, but it’s just so hard to convey this information to young minds. So, what we got was:
Pilgrims arrived in America. Yay! They done fucked up hard. Winter? Oh no! Indians came. “How. Have some shit.” Party! “We’re saved.” Some death.
You try and fit the whole story in a ten-page picture book! That’s what I thought, pussy.
Well, one of the best things about blog-o-nation is the endless amounts of space. Never a better time than the present to discuss the TRUE story of how Thanksgiving started.
It was early May, 1618. The newly founded Proctor-Harvey Blanket Store (London) had developed its first production run. The store front was adorned with a full blanket display, all bearing the print that Sir Thomas Harvey thought up in a dream, actually. Too bad Lucas Proctor was blind, and was unable to properly critique his friend’s prototype:
When Lucas Proctor was finally able to take a blanket home, so his wife could see what he’d been investing all of his time and money into, she wept openly. The newborn babe, breastfeeding at the teet of his fair, young wife, vomited warm breastmilk all over his new oxford shoes. Something had to be done, and quickly.
Members of a defunct, local gang were called from retirement. For a nominal fee, they would solve all of Proctor’s problems. By morning, Thomas Harvey was floating face-down in the Thames and the entire freight of merchandise had been smuggled aboard a merchant vessel that was bound for Plymouth Rock. (At the time, Plymouth Rock was a frequent merchant port as it had established itself, early on, as one of the foremost authorities on quality titty bars)
Lucas Proctor was never fully informed of the dangerous nature of his blankets. Had Thomas Harvey not been assassinated, he would have confessed that a laboratory in darkest London had developed special dyes to replicate every color in the dream. After much R & D, the lab deduced that bacteria-based dyes would need to be developed, a first for the textile industry. And while the dyes reproduced imagined colors with striking brilliance, they also grew into petrie dishes of filth in disease if left alongside a keg of salted meat.
If only he weren’t face-down in the Thames. Tsk Tsk.
So, a whole batch of hideous blankets, loaded alongside barrels and barrels of salted meat, set sail for the new Americas, in search of a new home and some bouncy puritanical poundcakes. As the weeks wore on, the blankets became home to a disease the likes of which the world had never seen*! Who knew that Harvey would not only discover the most heinous graphic design of all recorded history, but create a weapon of mass distruction at the same time, as well.
When the boat finally arrived on shore in America, the settlers were appaled. Someone took 15 barrels of perfectly good salted meat and stacked them alongside demon nightmare rags from the future. They explained to the merchants that the refuse would not be needed. But the merchants traversed a long and treacherous ocean, the only currency they carried was in the form of these god-awful blankets. No sale, no money. And sadly for the merchants, no money meant no titties. This simply would not do.
But the settlers, too, had seen their fair share of bullshit. They felt for the merchants. They explained that there waaaas a big casino hidden deep within the woods, and they’d never been, but maybe they’d like the distictive pattern, and don’t all casinos have titty bars? They weren’t sure. Casinos were a relatively new creation. The merchants took off to the deep forest.
That night, Jethro Warnerbee Jacobsmith was smoking next to the meatshed. Through a series of incidents he had difficulty recounting to the local proctorate the next morning, he inadvertently set the meatshed on fire. Though the event was a tragedy, the Indians invited the whities to dine with them the following evening. The merchants were still inland, partying with native girls. So they ate, one and all, beneath the flickering glow of a afternoon waterfall. The indians had accepted the gift of blankets the day before. They did so out of courtesy. In a secret meeting, they agreed they were the most disgusting blankets they had ever laid eyes on. But the white folk seemed retarded, and they wanted to see where this was all going.
Years later, you must dine with your family. All the while, remember that life is not so bad. Think of one reason as evidence. Tell someone out of an ancient longing for accountability. Pray you don’t burn down the meatshed.
*Science-minded folks have falsely tried to claim for years that: (a) small pox is a virus (b) its first known case can be traced back to 1122 BC (c) small pox was first discovered in China. Well, scientists have been lying to you for years. When are you finally going to them to shut the fuck up, already?