Really? Are you really going to try to pass off your Thanksgiving shopping for a family of eleven and, by the looks of it, several pets, as a modest express lane basket? Really? The stuffing ingredients alone exceed the limit, which, in case you forgot your glasses or can’t read, is 12.
And just because you’re not making eye contact with me doesn’t mean I’m not here or that you’ve suddenly rendered your overflowing cart invisible. I can see you, your party bags of Ruffles, and string-bean casserole ingredients. And you’re all making me sick. Instead of being thankful for my good fortune and the peppermint ice cream in my basket, I’m stewing over your gross misconduct.
Let me talk turkey: you blow. And I bet your spinach dip does, too.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful for a few things: my impending tryptophan coma, for example, when I can forget all about you and your shoddy holiday behavior. It’s not called Thankstaking now, is it?