Archive for November, 2011


First off, all of our wonderful readers on Twitter need to follow @GrigorNR immediately. It’s a daily dose of DECF compacted into 140 characters a few times a day. Usually. Basically, it’s a free laugh. So…you know…do. Follow. The account. Yes.

…okay.

Anyways, the holidays are always an exciting time to be alive. The thrill of the rush of the crowds. The bruised ribs and chipped teeth. Tripping a roaring mother of three as she charges through the horde of rabid consumers and leaving her to be trampled under feet homing in on iPads and Fuck Me Barbies. Ah. Winter in Tuscany.

But the real start of the holiday season is that magical last Thursday in November: Thanksgiving. Think about it with me, will you?

Can’t you just taste it now? The potatoes? The cranberry sauce? The different pies? Various styles of salads and buns and stuffing and marshmallow yams and a whole hell of a lot of wine? What about that turkey? Cooked to perfection. The meat nice and juicy, especially those giblets. The skin crispy and golden. The random family member with his pants down around his ankles, humping the cavity with reckless abandon, grease staining his dress slacks?

Oh. Wait.

Yes, my friend. You’ve just been stuck with an old “Ben Franklin’s Folly”. The more Thanksgivings you go through, the more the odds approach 100% that you will find one of the members of your family (hopefully extended, but occasionally you have nuclear) buried up to the hilt in the gaping anus of what once used to be a, if not majestic, at least respectable bird. It’s an inevitability, just like Grandma having one too many hot toddys and revealing to her grandchildren that she in fact used to be in possession of a penis under her matronly old lady pants. Just like Uncle Bob suffering a coronary because THE GODDAMN LIONS COULDN’T COVER A RECEIVER IF YOU HANDED THEM BLANKETS AND A SONOFABITCHING DART GUN. Just like a couple of your distant cousins ending up in the bathroom with their mouths in places that only significant others, hookers, and Penn State coaches usually inhabit. It’s the American dream!

Whether or not it is just a part of tradition, the fact is that now you have to deal with the centerpiece to your biggest meal of the year currently being raped. So. What do you do? We’re here to help!
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First off, you need to determine if the violator has ‘finished’. This is the most critical component. Every moment that you waste gawking in abject horror at the turkey-fucking in front of you is another moment closer to the bird being completely unsalvageable due to a special helping of Cousin Jeff’s man gravy. So, you need to assess the situation quickly.

If the thrusting is slowing down, you’re doomed. Throw the bird out and order pizza. Or better yet, tie Cousin Jeff down and force him to eat the entire turkey. Put the video of his agony up on YouTube while making sure the world knows that this man ruined your perfectly lovely dinner with his food sex.

If his thrusting is speeding up, HURRY. He’s about to go Vesuvius inside the bird and you only have a workable give time of about fifteen seconds if you’re lucky. Sprint over, rip the bird off his dick (being careful to avoid any potential man splatter), and throw him through the breakfast nook window. It’s the only way to be sure that his seed does not touch your meal. Plus picking glass shards out of your urethra is a good way to have quick operant conditioning.

If he is maintaining a steady rhythm, you’re safe and can proceed accordingly. You have two options. You can either quietly but firmly tell him to put the bird down and leave this place, never to return on pain of public humiliation. Or you can just knock his ass out with a wine bottle and call the family in to witness his flaccid shame. Either is reasonable.

Assuming that you have not had the bird serve to completion as an organic RealDoll and have just quietly ejected the offending party from your home…what do you do about the bird? Obviously, it’s not sanitary to slice up and serve what has only recently been as fucked as the emotional compasses of those teenage mouth-breathers called Twilight fans. On the other hand…you’re the only one to see what happened and you know exactly which parts have kept their sexual integrity intact. Plus, it’s getting close to showtime and there’s no really good way to explain that the turkey is unusable because of some “indiscreet behavior”. Choices, choices. The way I see it, you have only really two options.

First, you could chuck the thing. Set it on fire and let the healing flame cleanse the tortured carcass and burn away the ooginess in your soul. Go and give a quick little speech to the group of gathered family and friends and explain in no uncertain terms that the turkey had to be destroyed because you damn sure were going to keep even the barest vestige of Cousin Jeff’s semen away from your loved ones. Spare no one any detail. The children must know that sometimes the people that you think are so great are really just bird-fuckers. They’ll have to learn at some point.

The other choice is less morally defensible but more financially and expeditiously viable. You can simply carve up the bird, making sure to throw away any pieces that you know for a fact were tainted with dick germs, and serve it to your guests with a smile on your face and a sick feeling in your stomach. Maybe split your unsullied portion with the little kids so you can feel like you maintained some sort of moral guideline in the wake of your serving sex meat to your family. You asshole. I can’t even look at you.

Finally…the million dollar question. What if someone finds out that you took the faster route instead of the healthier route? It’s really simple.

You lie. You lie your ass off. You explain to the (more than likely) incredibly angry and offended party that the bird was not, in fact, penetrated. Rather, you tell them that you walked into the kitchen just as your ornithological humpmaster was dropping his pants and creeping towards the bird, a predatory look on his face. You tell them that you whipped your coffee cup at his balls and ejected him from the family forever. You assure them that at no point was any part of any penis on or inside the food. Basically, you tell them whatever they want to hear, whether or not it’s true. A lie can never be found out, you know.

And if the sexual offender is in fact a female instead of a male?

Um. I don’t know. Watch and see what happens, I guess?
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(What in the hell kind of double standard is that? – ed.)

What do you mean?

(That if a man has sex with your meal that he should be shunned but if a woman does that you should just watch and, presumably, masturbate? – ed.)

Whoa! Whoa whoa whoa. I never said masturbate. That would be incest. Even weirder incest if that would be possible. I just said watch and see what happens. You added the sex thing.

(…I can’t believe you’re trying to moralize to ME now. – ed.)

Ba-leeb it! Happy Thanksgiving everyone! May your family be well and your food remain unviolated!