Let's be a gay Thanksgiving

I'm the cranberry juice already poured into your ex's wine glass who just got his 90-day coin for abstinence.

Currently, I'm chilling in the fridge and will be brought out discretely when the Beaujolais is uncorked.

I'm the Thanksgiving turkey from a Martha Stewart recipe. I'm needlessly fussy and time consuming and the end result tastes like every other bland, gamey turkey out there.

But Greg will shed tears if I'm presented without the requisite awe from the other guests.

I'm gin and regret.

I’m alcohol, pot and broken diets.

I'm the Black Friday overspend.

I'm the "corn, when did I eat corn" joke said by an eldergay at the dinner table.

This shit is tedious. It's a gay board, and yet they allow gay bashing?

I wonder at Muriel who shuts down celeb' threads but considers this ok? It's not funny anymore, and particularly when we're being attacked politically and socially. It's becoming harder and harder when the humor they keep citing is nothing but. It's boring, divisive and mean.

^lesbian

I’m the fabulous carrot cake. My owner took great pains to make me but has no idea how to bake. I’ll sit around. The good thing though is that I’ll get to hear all the conversations until I go in the garbage after the guests leave.

I'm Tom the turkey.

I've had sufficient of this queen trying to put her hand up my ass.

I’m the 15th iteration of this singularly wit free thread.

R7

Not meant to be a gay-bashing thread, rather a gentle look at some of our foibles.

The Lesbian Thanksgiving thread has about 300 responses so I thought this would be OK. Lighten up!

R11

Are you part of the problem or part of the solution?

For a lot of us, a real Thanksgiving means sitting at home alone trying not to be upset that no one invited us over.

Life's a banquet, and most poor fools are STARVING!

I'm the whipped cream. If I'm hand- or machine-whipped, the boys will talk about how naughty they are when they take a dollop of me on the pumpkin pie. If I'm from a can, there will be sex jokes at my expense.

R14, you’re welcome to come over to my place. It’s just me and my two cats, well three really, but Snoopy isn’t a fan of company so he’ll be hiding.

Awww, R17 is sweet. Get over to his house tomorrow, R14.

R7 and R11 we're the bone-crushingly boring guests who know how to really ruin a good time.

I’m the turkey breast that your boyfriend shot his load into ‘just to see if anyone notices’

I'm the vicious slap for confusing parsley with cilantro.

i’m a penis

I am the weird fact that Gay Thanksgiving threads are less funny than Lesbian Thanksgiving threads.

Oh my, who would advocate using Fiestaware at Thanksgiving?!

Odd, innit?

[quote]Oh my, who would advocate using Fiestaware at Thanksgiving?!

True. For me, it’s Dixie or nuthin.

What? I ain’t doin dishes later.

More foods look good on turquoise plates, i.e., Fiestaware, than on any other color plate than white. And I hate white.

I'm crystal meth.

I’m the humourless dykes and hagfags in this thread screeching, because they have been brainwashed by woke ideologues, are developing schizophrenia, and think anything outside of gushing praise is a violent act.

I’m the lingering pain of holidays past. Experienced before I gave myself permission to not go home.

I’m the trashy Yassss Kween who will try to control the playlist when Christmas music is put on after dinner. I have to hear Ariana Grande and her feminine Diva ilk constantly, as I’m allergic to anything remotely masculine. I almost had a seizure when the host last year played ‘Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ by Gene Autry. Hurry, someone put on ‘My Only Wish (This Year)’ by Britney before I pass out!

I'm the FAT gay guys over 40 who live for the holidays.

R17 Thank you for the invitation! Maybe next year.

I’m the store bought cupcakes that everybody will be talking about tomorrow. I have ruined many dinner parties and will likely get my bearer shunned from future gatherings.

*waves at r32*

I’m the debate over herb stuffing vs sausage stuffing

I’m the corporate-climbing gay who bought a latticed blueberry-rhubarb pie at the bakery on the corner, put it in my own food storage container and passed it off as my grandmother’s recipe. There are suspicions building, which will peak after many cocktails.

“Everything about you is fake, Rob! Everything!”

I’m the table so overloaded with floral arrangements, turkey tchotchke, candles, gourds and unnecessary stemware there is no place to put the fucking food.

I’m Rob.

R38 I’m the elaborate descriptions of the tchotchkes.

“That’s a Fred Olsen pottery piece we picked up in Palm Springs. We were staying at the Parker for a week and had rented a beautiful BMW, so we were driving around and spotted this quaint pottery shop. We walked in and the piece just called to me, it was love at first sight.”

R27 that pic looks like we’re sitting down to Wednesday night dinner in 1990 Florida.

R40 My god, you nailed me. I'll never be able to do that again. I'd always thought friends were interested in knowing where I got everything.

It’s a teasing thread, r42. Don’t change because we were busting your hump. You’re fun and so are your stories.

I'm the service at MCC. It went late and so Thanksgiving was ruined.

R7 Miss Prisspot

I'm a the adulterous handjob Bob gives to Chris in the guest bathroom

This is the perfect Datalounge gay Thanksgiving

I'm the guest who makes an exit as soon as the booze runs low....And wonders if the bathhouse is open

I'm Tyler. I'm Bob's Plus One. I'm a good 20 years younger than everyone else at this gathering. The quality of liquor at this party is two cuts above what's normally available to me. I've already had three drinks and Bob and I arrived only 30 minutes ago. I didn't bring anything to the party, Bob took care of that. (We stopped by the bakery to pick up the pie that Bob ordered.)

I'm that fucking mariah carey song

I am the place set for Mother. Not the head of the table, you see, she is old fashioned, but the place of honor. We will be having champagne, because she adores it, cranberries and mandarins, as they are her passion this time of year, and her stuffing recipe, challah. We don't know how many more she has, so we make the effort to the lovely tyrant.

I'm the line, "What I am Michael is a 32 year old pockmarked jew fairy, and I take a bit of time and I smoke a bit of grass before I show my face to the world, it's nobody's god damned business but my own. . . .and how are you this evening?"

that inevitably comes up

I smell cunt!

Oh wait, it's just R7

I’m the mother of a gay adult son, sitting home alone — his choice. Brilliant young man plagued by mental illness. He’s freaked out over recent Colorado shooting. And who wouldn’t be?

Homophobic Rethuglicans and others — may lauren Bobert be tarred and feathered and barbecued very slowly until death in the public square .

My heart breaks for my beloved son No hateful responses please but if you want to you will

We will set another place of honor, R54.

R54, honey, do you want me to make you a nice Marguerita?

I'm Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, I'm the Gay's Superbowl.

Oh, dear: I'm the Gays' Superbowl.

I am the three bites of turkey whilst playing with the mashed potatoes in front of me with a fork. Lord knows I cannot have THAT many carbs, as it will destroy my Twinkish figure at age 47.

I'm the food lectures of Gay Bruce, who doesn't eat carbs and red meat, and Lesbian Lorna, who only eats vegan.

Potatoes? Are. You. Crazy????

It's better for the environment!

[quote]And wonders if the bathhouse is open

Oh, it is.

I mean, or so I’ve heard. *cough* Only losers would go there on Thanksgiving. But say hello to Paul the clerk for me. He’s always there on Thanksgiving.

Again, I’ve heard.

I'm the thank-you note -- written by hand with a fountain pen in blue ink on a Crane's cotton bond card -- that will go promptly into the mail on Friday.

I'm MEN.COM releasing its annual Thanksgiving themed porn clip with a hilarious and outrageous set up.

I'm a gay bar at Thanksgiving. Every year, it's the same.

I open at 1 and it's deadly slow all afternoon. My staff and a few regulars have turkey and the fixings.

Then, as if a signal had been sent, hundreds of gays converge on me and in me within minutes of each other, all fleeing from their heteronormative Thanksgiving family dinners as if they are on FIRE.

I'm the Stouffer's spinach souffle thawed in the microwave and now baking in a Le Creuset au gratin pan in the oven. I will be dusted with parmesan and the host, who is making this for a vegetarian guest, will try to pass this off as homemade. No matter, I'm the best tasting thing on the table.

[quote]Then, as if a signal had been sent, hundreds of gays converge on me and in me

Ah, have I been there. Good times.

I'm the eldergay doing a Judy Garland imitation, but no one can tell if it's Bette Davis, Tallulah Bankhead or Katharine Hepburn.

I’m the inevitable white meat/dark meat joke.

Y’all know I’ll be making my annual appearance. Probably numerous times.

I'm so sorry, R54.

I know this may not help your pain, but maybe it will help you (and others) understand why so many gay men and lesbians (and BQT+, etc.) struggle with holidays in general and attacks on gay venues so mightily. It was published earlier this week. Sorry, it's kind of a long read, but worth it. It left me in tears, but in a cathartic way. Peace to you.

This Holiday, I’m Going to a Gay Bar By Lauren Hough Ms. Hough is an essayist and the author of “Leaving Isn’t the Hardest Thing.”

They tell us not to flaunt it. They tell us to not shove it in their faces. They tell us not to talk about it. They tell us everything would be fine if we’d just keep it behind closed doors. They tell us these things during Thanksgiving dinner, at Christmas after the kids have opened their gifts, while the game is on and we wanted to try to talk, to explain, to give them a chance to see us, to love us. We don’t want to give up just yet.

When I heard the news about the shooting at Club Q, an L.G.B.T.Q. nightclub in Colorado Springs, I couldn’t help but think of the rhetoric spewed by those like James Dobson.

We know what we’re up against. We heard it growing up, in church and at home. We heard the words they use in polite company — about loving the sinner and hating the sin. We heard the words they used when they’d been listening to Christian radio or their actual minister or Rush Limbaugh or Fox News, about abominations and predators in bathrooms and groomers on the internet, and the words they use when they’ve had one too many, the names they call those who could be our friends, who could be us.

Those words we heard and were taught and were forced to read, a whole lot of those words came out of Colorado Springs, the headquarters of Focus on the Family, an evangelical organization whose founder, Mr. Dobson, wrote books exhorting our evangelical parents on how to deal with strong-willed children — corporal punishment, “a little pain goes a long way” — and on how to raise boys to be suitably masculine, who compared homosexuality to pedophilia and who once appeared to offer a solution to fathers whose young daughters had to share a restroom with trans women: “If this had happened 100 years ago, someone might have been shot. Where is today’s manhood? God help us!”

Some of us grew up and escaped to cities where we could feel, if not safe exactly, at least a little less alone. We could find jobs where we didn’t have to hide who we were and tell lies about our “roommate.” We could find friends like us, a new family, to replace one we lost. Some of us stayed home or moved home when things didn’t work out in the city. But that story’s heartwarming only when the main character is a straight executive in a Hallmark movie.

Some of us go home for the holidays, where we are told to keep it behind closed doors. We step outside to walk the dog so they don’t see our tears. We call our friends back in the city. Our brother steps out onto the porch to tell us, when we ask why our family can’t just love us, “It’s all about the baby Jesus,” because he’s the only one who knows how much it hurts. And he’s the only one who can still make us laugh about it.

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Later on, when the kids are sleeping, when Mom wants to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life,” some of us head to the bar. We don’t need to know anyone there. We don’t need anyone to tag along. We don’t need to know if it’s a dance night or a drag show. We’ll be all right.

Just as soon as we walk through those doors, past the bouncer checking IDs, up to the bar, where the impossibly cute bartender nods to let us know he’s seen us. He did see us. Someone finally did. It’s been a while. This is where we’re safe. For many of us, it’s the only place. They told us it would be OK, behind those closed doors. They’d leave us alone.

Often there’s a drag show, a fund-raiser for a homeless shelter for the queer kids whose parents listened to their evangelical leader and threw their children out onto the streets. We’ve heard the panic about drag queens, and it’d be hard to not laugh if we didn’t know the intent behind the manufactured panic. Drag queens talk about sex the way politicians talk about thoughts and prayers and Christians talk about love. Everyone knows they’re full of it. Drag queens are in on the joke.

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If you’ve ever been to a gay bar on a holiday or ever worked at a gay bar during a holiday, and I have, you get to watch the transformation of every person who walks through those doors: the unwinding of jaw muscles and shoulders, hips that start to roll about halfway across the room, the tone of voice that changes between the front door and the bar. You watch people become themselves as they throw back that first shot, the medicinal shot, then find immediate friends down the bar or out on the patio. It’s as beautiful as it is tragic.

It’s tragic because they were never going to leave us alone. No matter how quiet we kept it, no matter how much we hid it in front of them. The police came into our houses and dragged us out in handcuffs, printed the mug shots in the paper so our bosses and families and neighbors would know what they had told us to keep secret. The military harassed us and threatened us and threw us out, even though it said it wouldn’t ask if we didn’t tell.

They don’t want us to feel safe. They don’t want us to be safe.

Joshua Thurman, in a tearful interview shortly after he survived the shooting last weekend, asked, “Where are we supposed to go?”

The Stonewall riots began because they were lying then, too, when they told us to keep it behind closed doors. So we came out into the streets. We fought back. We fought back Saturday night, too. It was club patrons who stopped the gunman, who threw him to the ground and subdued him until the police arrived, and when they arrived, they placed handcuffs on one of those patrons, who said later that the police locked him in a police car, briefly preventing him from tending to his family members.

The police, as an institution, were not built to protect queer people, not when politicians fearmonger about drag queens and bathrooms to rally an evangelical base.

We protect ourselves. We’ll fight for our own. We always have. We’ll mourn. We’ll raise money. We’ll organize. And we’ll keep fighting, until all of us are safe, everywhere.

But tonight, I’m going to a gay bar. Maybe there’ll be a drag show.

--end--

Bitch all day long bitch all night long

[quote]I'm a the adulterous handjob Bob gives to Chris in the guest bathroom

I'm actually the blow job Bob gave Chris in the guest bathroom, but I'm pretending to be a handjob to calm Chris' partner, Trevor. Trevor has been planning today for a month, he is tense, he wants to be married, not partnered, and now that fucking slut Bob, who he didn't even want to invite, has turned my Martha Stewart Thanksgiving into a Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf Thanksgiving and I'm trying really hard right now not to cry.

Silly Dataloungers, real gays don't eat in excess...

I'm the perfect outfit for the occasion, the glamorous caftan.

I'm vests.

I am Greg, conveniently absent from the Thanksgiving recipe discussion. It is because I am a Boris.

I don't know that Greg is a Boris, but he's certainly a bore-us.

Argue over which brother had a cuter sweater!

I'm the caftans and earrings!

I’m the sensation of overpowering condescension as it dawns on you the cranberry sauce came out of a tin.

I’m the sensation of overpowering lust as it dawns on you that the buttplug is still in

Don’t fart, you’ll kill the cat.

I'm the special can of turkey dog food the bichon frise "Judy" is getting.

I'm more expensive per ounce than anything on the table.

I'm the disappointed wife of a friend who assumes all gay men are skilled at cooking and decorating. The host is barbecuing the turkey on the grill and handed out cans of beer as we came in. There's a huge TV screen in the backyard for football games. This is not what I expected.

I'm the six surrogate babies at the table in high chairs taking up all the attention as the trickle cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and smashed up turkey down their bibs.

It's impossible to have an adult conversation under these circumstances.

I'm continuing my Feng Shui repositioning of all objects and furnishings throughout our apartment to ensure absolutely perfect and satellites-aligned placement throughout, even after our guests have arrived, started to eat, and attempted to try to communicate with me in some way.

At precisely four o'clock the phone rings and everyone falls silent. Who calls a landline these days? It can only be your mother, calling from the care facility a few states over.

Mom likes to talk so it's 20 minutes till the meal resumes. And never quite recovers.