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And Fuck The Turkey You Rode In On

THE ENGINE, as an international online destination, is Thanksgiving-free. Gnawing on a dried-out plucked buzzard to celebrate Britain chucking all the creepy inbred sandal-chewing God-botherers into boats and shipping them all off to a continent cursed by earthquakes, hurricanes and tornados? Not at THE ENGINE you’re not. THE ENGINE is the No Thanksgiving Zone. Consider us your virtual shelter from tryptophan poisoning, screaming children you’re only distantly related to, elderly estranged relatives forgetting your name and puking unidentifiable vegetable matter sprinkled with bits of Oxycontin into your lap, mom drinking gin and bleach and shrieking that you’ll all miss her when she’s gone, and grandma’s new boyfriend masturbating into your sock drawer while you’re half-conscious in front of the television.

I love you.

— W

(P.S.: Brian Wood’s just reminded me of something. Why don’t the Americans give each other blankets as Thanksgiving gifts?)

Published in brainjuice