Masterpieces liquidate infernal tears

Thanksgiving is my favorite, favorite holiday, because I love eating and I love playing games with the extended family after dinner, when we are all drunk. This year, we played a game where you have to get everyone to guess a word by using only alliterating words that hint at the word they have to guess. By some stroke of God's luck, I got Viagra: "Sex. Septugenarians."

As much as I love having over family, I cringe every time I am exposed to my mother's decorating. It is awful. Fake flowers everywhere, courtesy of her own mother.

I noticed that she added a special hint for Thanksgiving this year: harvest-themed dainty pillows on the bench out front. My mother thinks that if she puts those out, people will think we are friendly farmers in the Midwest who lounge on antiques and read by candelabra.

I can't wait to get my own home so I can do it in the style of Le Corbusier and can really broadcast the cold of my cruel heart. That will show her, I'm sure.