Rick Marino 14

The turkey day overfills my holiday enjoyment bottle with grey mediocrity sauce. I don't love thanksgiving. I don't hate it. I spend a couple of days with funky-looking relatives in a house that reeks of old people. I've spent many contemplative moments mulling over a possible comparison to the pungent, unmistakable scent of oldies. Instead of a scent, though, I would equate the smell of elderlies to the taste of asparagus. It is strikingly unique. It is not savory, but it is tolerable. Anyways, I digress.... The highlight of the gathering is reminiscing and kindling ruckus with my comical cousins. We thrill our boredom by creating commotion, rumpus, and hullabaloo amongst ourselves. My favorite thanksgiving memory transpired at the ripe hour of 3 in the morning. My cousins and I were hibernating heaps, bundled in layers on top of the cold basement floor. I had been slumbering for about 4 hours when I was jolted awake by a an odd, grinding and chomping noise. Slightly frightened, I rose to flip on the light switch, disturbing all my sleeping companions. Everybody was now awake and aware of the noise. The culprit: my cousin was rapidly chomping on a foot long dark green cucumber like a beaver chawing a block of wood. The collection of cousins and I became crippled with laughter for a solid 30 minutes.