I'm thankful for Paris Hilton

Thanksgiving is by far one of my least favorite holidays. Not because I have any particular disdain for pilgrims, cornucopias, or muted autumn colors, but because I'm such a goddamned picky eater.

I have the taste buds of an eight year old boy who refuses to try anything new and likes it that way. Over the years I've definitely branched out, and I actually eat the majority of what is typically considered Thanksgiving-food, but that hasn't psychologically redeemed the holiday for me. No, Thanksgiving is and always will be a holiday for old people, and I'll be damned if I succumb to old age before I turn 64 and can buy discounted bargain-price movie tickets at the box office.

Sometimes I wish my Thanksgivings were as entertaining as Harry's. For example, the topics of conversation at my family Thanksgiving ranged from the most exciting man alive, Al Gore, to the discovery that "the crazy contortionist lady who dated Rick Moranis and showed up to the last few family dinners" was not, in fact, a friend of my step-grandmother, but one of MY OWN relatives. I am blood-related to an absolute nutcase. I guess that's not entirely surprising.

Meanwhile, in the midst of Harry's Thanksgiving dinner, his grandmother casually announced that she was going to murder Paris Hilton. Okay, that's an exaggeration. She jokingly mentioned that she wouldn't mind seeing "that Paris" dead (as opposed to the Paris in 'Romeo and Juliet').

But let's be honest: it would have been way better if she decided to get everybody's attention by delicately clinking her wine glass with a knife, clearing her withered throat, and simply declaring: "I am going to kill Paris Hilton." This, of course, would be followed by a brief stunned silence, at which point the family would resume their meal entirely unphased.

Then again, if she did try to kill Paris Hilton, I would be obligated to stop her.

But that's another story entirely.