Gee. Thanks. Part Deux

 The following is the second part of my homage to Thanksgiving.  If you'd like to attach a little context, please review "Gee. Thanks.  Part I.".  Or not.  Not like I'm getting paid for this or anything.  Wish you would, though.  The comments are cool.

    The brightly colored leaves swirling madly amongst the trees, a chill autumn wind blowing briskly over freshly-harvested fields, and the forest animals bustling crazily about in preparation for winter.

    And nobody fighting over the remote.

    So it was in 1621 that Governor Bradford of Plimouth Colony thought it was high time to celebrate a day of thanksgiving.

NOTE:  I'm using the traditional spelling of "Plymouth."  Why?  Because I am one fart smucker, that's why.

    Frantically scurrying to find a suitable venue at which to hold their celebration, the Pilgrim Fathers were disappointed to learn they were too late; all the good days in October and early November had been reserved months ago for the Pequot/Schwartz wedding reception, the Jamestown “We Were First” Commemoration, and the last of the Mohican family reunions.

"No big deal, really.  There's only two of us left.  And you're a white guy."

    Luckily, a spot opened up the last Thursday of November when “Mohawks On Ice!” was forced to close after some Hurons stole their loincloths.  So, the Native Europeans invited their friends, the Native Americans, to a grand feast at the local Elks Lodge picnic pavilion (featuring real elk). 

    A deeply devout people, the Pilgrims wished to thank the “Godless heathen savages” for all their help getting the colony on its feet.  After all, the tribe was essential to gaining a foothold in the New World, long before the Trail of Tears, Wounded Knee, and all-you-can-eat casino buffets. 

    Imagine what would have happened had Squanto not taught the Pilgrims to plant dead fish with their corn (“Behold, I bring you the gift of maize!  As long as you don’t mind the smell of dead fish”). 

    Prior to that, they just stuck them in their trousers.

"We really appreciate thou bringest of a plate to share, Runs With Scissors. 
But, next time, forgeteth the Eel Pie."

    Many customs today hearken back to this coming together: the feast, the fellowship, the two-hand touch lacrosse game after supper, and the men falling asleep in front of the fire with their hands down their breeches while the women cleaned up all laid the foundation of our nation.

    NOTE:  By our nation, I mean the United States.  Canada, you have your own Thanksgiving in October.  England, you coulda had a piece of this, but noooooooooo.

"Bloody wankers."

    Happily, it was the giving of thanks which has endured through peace, war, and disco.  No doubt Governor Bradford himself began a tradition which survives to this day:  putting relatives on the spot to state that for which they were thankful.

"And I'm especially thankful that politics weren't brought up at dinner."
"MAGA!!"
"Here we go."

    In homes across the nation, this scene will be played out anew during halftime.  In the true spirit of the holiday, millions of family members will likewise be grilled.

    This year, though, in addition to joyful thanks for family, friends, and the feelings of warmth which come from both, one will resonate above all:

    That Great-Aunt Mildred was able to buy the last case of Twinkies from that guy in the back of his van at the Stop N Shop.

    Because the alternative was the Eel Pies.

    And I don’t care how much Cool Whip you put on them, they’re still eels.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!