OPUS Mag

Far from timid • Caveat Lector

The 5 Thanksgiving Day Commandments

The 5 Thanksgiving Day Commandments

“Mind your business, and eat your food.” - Chef Stephen Waites

In all honesty, I could stop this with the above quote, but with the advent of social media, I’ve seen how some of you are giving thanks & you people need structure. Enter: ME...that sounded really fucked up, but you know what the hell I mean.

Who am I? I’m the motherfucker who respects his ambiance, palate, plate, and so happens to be a pillar of his community; seriously, how many fucking pillars do you know? Exactly! Off jump, understand if you don’t carve the turkey on Thursday, you & I are not alike (1 of many reasons) but I’ve been Haitian of the year 8 times in a row; I’m respected everywhere. I don’t care when I get my plate, or who fixes it (I’ll make it my damn self) because the only thing that matters is that I get exactly what I want on my plate but that’s grown folk talk. I’ve given you my Cookout Commandments but this is the Black Super Bowl of food, and these Thanksgiving Commandments are non-negotiable.

Da whites are NOT Allowed – I’m all for loving whoever your heart desires but my brothers, if you think THIS is the year to bring a pink toe to dinner? Wrong! My sisters, if you want to take a walk on the wild side, and be liberated of “ain’t shit niggas” take a hike on your own time. 2016 has been a Black ass year, and with who da whites elected as their president, Thanksgiving is OUR celebration of US; especially considering that they eat bland food. Pro Tip: If you so happen to be in an interracial relationship, please tell your guest to keep their yip yap to a minimum, and please do not try to diversify our plates with, “this is from my country, my people eat this…” NO, FUCK YOU!

A Seat at the Table – With all due respect to the great album by Solange (I used to pronounce her name Solanjay like she was Grace Jones’ character in Boomerang) a seat at the adult table is serious business. More importantly, the right seat is crucial; only the veterans of the adult table understand how to position yourself next to the food you enjoy the most so you can scoop a little extra something. However, it’s deeper than getting to the yaaaaaams, if you have your main squeeze, the cinnamon apple of your eye, and that 2nd glass of wine has you feeling filthy and kinky, you might want to rub a butt cheek, thigh or clit. It’s Thanksgiving, show some appreciation and rub her clit while whispering, “look at the flick of the clit, look at the flick of the clit.” But wait, there’s more because you assholes don’t like your food to touch, like there’s not 1 way in and 1 way out. Fuck you! If you don’t want your food touching, go sit at the fucking kids table because you’re childish, immature and more than likely wet the bed (not the good kind). Ever see kids eating their lunchables? They come with a tray that has compartments, and this is whom you’re emulating. “My greens can’t touch my turkey.” Man, fuck you and the lunchable tray you rode in on. Ain’t nobody got time or space for you and 4 plates cuz you’re scared of a little food integration; don’t be a food bigot! Pro Tip: If your seat at the table puts you in that awkward position of having to pass everyone something, lift your shirt over your face and cough; nobody wants to be handed food from a sick person.

Going to the Store “Right Quick” – First of all, there’s no such thing as “right quick” with niggas. “Yooooooo come help me paint my entire house right quick!” Niggas love them some “right quick” knowing damn well they lying like shit. You ain’t never in your life did anything “right quick” with a Black person. Going to the store “right quick” on thanksgiving can mean 2 things. 1. You’re the punk of your family, and they actually have you chauffeuring them to the store “right quick” to get ingredients they forgot to pick up or didn’t have enough of. 2. Your cousins looked at you, slapped their wristwatch and let you know it’s time to run to the store “right quick” meaning bring your lighter because it’s time to smoke as a family. When your cousins look at you, do not hesitate, form a single file line, and proceed to the nearest exit in a timely fashion. If anyone asks where you’re going, your reply is simple, “to the store right quick.” Pro Tip: Make sure everyone has a different cologne, perfume, or body spray; you don’t all need to smell alike, you ain’t in an r&b group.

Coming & Going – You do not show up empty handed. And for the love of Alain, if you can’t cook, please bring a bottle of liquor or something useful. Nobody has the patience to deal with your attitude because we didn’t want to eat your raggedy ass peas; keep your nasty ass creamed corn at your house, and enjoy it there. You know how guilty motherfuckers feel when your Kraft Mac & Cheese tray full and just bubbling on the table. And then you have the nerve to tell someone; “try it” no fuck you! You try it! Have some self-respect, and do not come with any form of coleslaw because we will jump you right in the living room during halftime of the football game. Please do not play yourself, and walk into the kitchen all willy nilly like you run something in a house you don’t live in; you will get embarrassed and tossed out towards the foyer like Jazzy Jeff.  Now this is important, as you’re getting ready to go, there’s a 1 to-go plate per person. This is not a threat, but a promise; if you think you’re going to leave anyone’s house with a tray full of Thanksgiving food, you are out your rabid ass mind, and there will be consequences. UNLESS you have the juice like me, and your tray was set aside before dinner was served, then you need to relax all your limbs, and take your 1 plate, and get the fuck out my face. Pro Tip: If you’re smart, you’ll take one of the pies to the car while they’re bringing out the main course. This takes an expert level of ninja skill, and I hope you all get caught, and get your asses whipped.

Have Sex with her Aunt – What’s a holiday without some spice? Her Aunt Yolanda been lurking your IG all year in preparation to shoot her shot; let Auntie Yo-Yo score. You’ll be sitting there watching the game, drinking, talking shit, and Aunt Yolanda, who hasn’t had a man since The Black Album, comes sits next to you, talking that good shit in your ear, “I love your neck tattoos, oh, and you have some on your hands too? Show me the rest.” (Hypothetically speaking of course) Your lady will be too busy frolicking in the kitchen; meanwhile, all Aunt Yolanda brought to Thanksgiving is a new Audi, a Fendi bag & a bad attitude; yes, that puts me in the right mood. Auntie Yo-Yo will pass you her cup because you know she knows how to make a mean adult beverage, that’s her mating call. So as she starts to strut like Mary J. Blige, you tell everyone she wants you to look at something with her car, and you give her the best thrusts of her lifetime. She’ll tell you that she’s not gonna cry, but I promise you she will go down. Pro Tip: I happen to be an uncle a few times over, so if any ladies want to balance this thing out…

Please understand that I am simply the messenger. I am not a psychiatrist, psychologist or any of that shit; so if the shit hits the fan, it’s your own fucking fault. All jokes aside, after the year we’ve all just had, everyone deserves peace on Thanksgiving, and hope you all enjoy. 

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