Let's be an Eldergay Friendsgiving

I'm the subtle eye rolling by everyone when the youngest friend in the group looks at the turkey with disgust and announces he's recently gone vegan.

I'm the intense discussion about Barbra's memoir.

I'm the Follies cast album (ORIGINAL cast, thank you very much!) on the CD player.

"Yvonne and ONLY Yvonne could do proper justice to I'm Still Here."

I'm the shriek of horror when a guest brings canned cranberry sauce.

"Mother always said there is NOTHING more common! GET OUT!"

I’m the outrageous radical lesbian who says shit to rile things up like Biden is just as bad as Trump.

I'm the indigestion caused by suppressing a fart all evening.

I'm the glass of wine dangled between the fingers of an unattractive queen during deep after-dinner discussion.

I'm bored and can't wait to get home and do my online Black Friday shopping.

I'm the old-school joint smoked outside or on the balcony

I'm the queen who lets out a Phyllis Diller-like cackle after declaring "I'm stuffed" as he says no to a second helping of pie.

I’m the one of the group who always had a babyface and recently got Botox and now looks like a cross between Neil Patric Harris and a stroke victim.

I'm the loneliness, felt even here.

"I've never cared for tomato aspic myself, but it was one of Mother's favorites."

I am the one who started reading this thread for a chuckle o- only to realize almost everything I remember or treasure is gone -

I'm the overbearing guest who insists on playing musical selections from "The Wiz" off his iPod.

I'm the unattractive queen with the wine dangling between his fingers who quips "Stephanie Mills always reminded me of a platypus" after R15 fires up his iPod.

"Of course Stephanie Mills wasn't going to be in the movie. She was a midget who was uglier than a dog's ass. And yes Diana was too old, but I still think she did a great job."

Lawd, AIKC u stumbled back to DL huh?

I'm the Marlboro Light Menthol 100 being smoked on the front porch while waiting for the water to boil.

I'm Mitzi the poodle all dressed up in my fanciest frock, begging for table scraps which I will end up puking all over Daddy's bedspread in a few hours.

I'm r20's partner, hoping he will refrain from imposing the phrase "dog dress" on us for the rest of the evening. But he's on his seventh cranberry and vodka, so who knows.

I'm Miss Margo, the elderly cat. I've gone to hide in the bedroom. I'm half-deaf and my kidneys are starting to go. I don't like loud strangers.

"nice girls don't wear cha-cha heels" says the eldest of the eldergays

I’m the precious Scarlett O’Hara Madame Alexander figurine (I’m NOT a doll, Marcus!) tucked away safely in the locked armoire to keep me safe from Marcus’ drunken impression of Mammy after his fifth Screwdriver..

I'm the gin

and the regret

I'm the oft-repeated canard, "Oh, a little seltzer gets red wine stains right out."

And the host's response, "Oh, Jeffrey, [italic]really?[/italic] Does that work for handwoven New Zealand white wool berber rugs too? Or just on the Walmart-type polyester kind you have?"

I'm the 3 back-to-back football games starting at 12:30p and airing on 3 major networks.

No one is aware that I exist.

R27 😂 😆

I'm "the Davids" from the "Let's be a Datalounge Eldergay's Birthday Party" thread.

We have not been invited this year, for reasons that should apparently be well known to us, but which we are chalking up to jealousy over our caftans.

I'm the Token Negro.

I am the piano that except Brad’s tipsy wistful rendition of “The Entertainer” - heavy on pedal - No one knows how to play ….. Remember when we used to all sing? …..

R30 Fuck off you racist cunt.

Let’s not and say we did. The holidays are for celebrating not congregating.

I'm the strategically placed sex toys near the sofa hoping to get the ball rolling.

I'm the name-dropping entertainment lawyer who never shuts up.

I’m the twink boyfriend, dragged to dinner by my rich sugar daddy.

I'm the bombastic, older partner of a young gayling who regales us with tales of their recent trip to the Middle East. Large gestures, booming voice, and a total conversation hog. Someone please kill him!

In real life, I know someone like the elder r37 describes. Only he doesn't have a gayling in tow. Not only does he have a booming voice and grandiose gestures, he insists on playing videos on his phone at full volume while he's out in restaurants. I stopped going out with this friend group when said elder is invited.

I'm the ubiquitous framed vintage movie poster in the hallway.

I'm the streak of pooh remains in the toilet.

I’m the multiple references to Linda Lavin.

I'm me serving up my beautiful lasagne as is customary at holidays in my Italian-American family only to have the younger date or straggler one of my guests brought along exclaim "Lasagna for Thanksgiving??".

I'm the closet Datalounger who is responsible for much of R14

^ *meant R41

R41, r14, I condole you

I'm the host's uninvited gay male roommate who deliberately saunters completely nude from the bedroom to the bathroom so the guests can get a glimpse.

I'm the host, noticing that R14 is getting maudlin, and springing up to put on "The Immaculate Collection," followed by a few sharp claps and the announcement: "Now who wants to dance?"

[quote]I'm the host's uninvited gay male roommate

I'm the rest of the guests, wondering why someone wouldn't invite his roommate to share Thanksgiving dinner with the group. Bitch must have done something unforgivable.

I'm the rewatch of Auntie Mame. Again.

I'm the pouting.

I'm the gin and regret.

I'm the disappearance of the young lasagna-hating, vegan straggler into the roommate's bedroom.

Op you don’t have to pretend. Neither do most of the people replying as this their reality.

I'm the text in the group thread 30 mins into the event:

"Hey guys, my boyfriend just got back in town tonight and he's not feeling well. I don't think we're going to make it tonight, sorry =/"

Lame thread when this is your life. Boo.

R36 or just someone he is casually seeing at the time who chooses to come to finally live their truth and really learn what this culture is like.

I'm the lesbian neighbor smirking as she passes one of the guests in the vestibule as he heads out for a quick smoke. "Celebrating Indigenous People's Day? I'm sure you are. No way a marginalized group is celebrating colonizers today. Enjoy your dead bird!"

I’m the hostess apron.

I've known lesbians exactly as r57 describes. They all need a punch in the cunt.

I'm two old friends and long-ago fuckbuddies sitting on the sofa after dinner, catching up . The horrifying realization dawns on them both separately, slowly: They're talking about who's died, who's sick, who had orthopedic surgery. They sound like their own grandparents.

R57 That was last month, no?

I assume lesbians would know that.

The day after Thanksgiving is Native American Heritage Day, R61. The dyke probably just got confused, but if asked, she would no doubt say that every day is Indigenous People's Day when you're living on stolen land.

We're Kim and Kristie, regaling the other guests with tales of the latest happenings down at the animal shelter.

I'm the unmistakable smell of vodka coming from Paul's direction as he mentions he got his 10 year chip last week and shakily sips an orange juice.

I'm the mystery odor everyone's been smelling all evening which turns out to be dog shit on the bottom of someone's shoe and tracked throughout the house.

I’m FOLLIES.

I'm the "it's turkey lurkey time" video that is reenacted

I'm Wilma Mankiller, protesting on the sidewalk.

I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard at a thread on DL

I’m the Carol Channing corn jokes.

I'm the free-range, heritage-breed, no-GMO, no-antibiotic turkey from a local farm. I was bought at Whole Foods for $4.99 a pound, but it's worth it to splurge sometimes on something really special when the boys get together, as the host informs the guests when he serves me.

I am stringy and bone dry.

"Well, you can certainly taste the 'organic' in this turkey!" Michael opines. "You'd never confuse it for one of those big, juicy supermarket Butterballs."

I'm the lube, I mean, gravy

I'm the hold-hands-and-listen-to-a-rambling-prayer moment. Nobody really enjoys this banal ritual, but the host is a holier-than-thou eldergay Chinese man hosting the Friendsgiving in his apartment, big enough for six, but holding thirty "family of choice" members.

Most of the attendees would rather be anywhere else, but they fear what the attendees would say about them if they weren't there.

that sounds super unfamiliar to this eldergay

I'm the toast. "To absent friends. You're still with us in spirit."

I'm the moment of silence as every attendee's memory flashes to the eternally young face of someone they once cared about.

I'm the host's forced merriment as he interrupts his own reverie to say, "Let's eat, everyone, before it gets cold!"

I’m the gin

and the sorrow

That's called "residoodoo," r40.

I’m the group’s hourly checking in on “the Davids” instagram feed, watching their bitter, drunken antics grow more and more bizarre.

At the last check-in, it was a duet of “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better.”

….both were wrong.

Oh, Dear!

[quote] I'm the indigestion caused by suppressing a fart all evening.

This is an *eldergay* Friendsgiving. No farts are being suppressed.

I'm the loving atmosphere that comes of seeing friends sitting around the table, still in good health and doing okay financially. Sorry, that's all I got.

I'm the T-day potluck, with cheapskates bringing church basement-type offerings like orange Jello*with carrot shreds and Rice Krispie treats.

I'm the laughter, the inside jokes, the camaraderie, and the simple pleasures of preparing and eating a good meal together. Also the quiet gratitude that we're all still around to share quality time with each other even if it's not that often anymore.

I'm the nephew, Joel.

I’m the colorful and festive variety of tattersall shirts and matching sweaters.

I'm the three large pies, a cheesecake, and two half-gallons of Häagen-Dazs ice cream. When I am served, every guest insists in turn that they will have "just a tiny sliver of pie, really -- no, even tinier than that, please" and "the teensiest scoop of the Dulce de Leche ice cream."

Yet within an hour nothing remains of me but crumbs and two empty tubs.

I'm the brie en croute and chocolate tart that the broke gay guest brought. The well-heeled straight guest brought nothing but her humongus appetite and her annoying laugh. Both will go home with boxes of food but the straight pig is getting disinvited next year if I have anything to say about it.

I'm the silent tears and sobs in the bathroom from the host. No one complimented his glittered pinecone display that he spent four hours making.

He's also drunk.

Geez, this thread is so depressing.

I’m mother’s crystal sherry glasses elegantly arranged on a silver tray.

I am the sour mood of Mike who has to prep for a colonoscopy the week after and cannot eat anything with fibers.

I'm the guest who brings a couple of empty containers so I can snag some leftovers for the delicious leftover-turkey sandwich I'll make the next day (which is usually better than the rest of the actual meal). Hosts are happy to oblige because they can offload some extra food and they don't have to kiss their LockNLock containers goodbye.

I am the glucose monitors on several guests all alarming in quick succession 20 minutes after the sweet potato and marshmallow casserole is served..

I'm the Christmas vests already being pulled out of the mothballs.

I’m the back-handed compliments about the pie crust consistency. I lead to a months long estrangement.

I’m somebody’s 33-year-old twunk partner, recently usurped by the twink mentioned upthread. I used to be the youngest at these things.

I’m mostly checking my phone, occasionally looking up to try and steer the Barbra memoir convo to Britney’s book.

I'm Todd's annual recitation of the Gloria Upson/Bunny Bixler ping pong ball incident from Auntie Mame. Complete with arm gestures.

I’m the one Lucy fan who gets into a heated argument with Lansbury and Russell fans as the “Mame” shenanigans continue.

I'm Turkey Lurkey Time on a karaoke loop.

I’m the dance line-up

[quote] I’m mother’s crystal sherry glasses elegantly arranged on a silver tray.

I’m the tongue lashing the young guest receives when he picks up a glass without asking. They’re for display only.

I'm the request for sparkling water that ends with the host coming from the kitchen with a can and yelling, "LACROIX, SWEETIE, LACROIX!"

Everyone roars except for the 33-year-old and the twunk.

I'm Brad. I arrive bearing one, maybe two, bottles of wine (under $10 per bottle, each, probably from Trader Joe's). My glass, however, is filled with the Malbec that Brian brought.

Brad, again. I'm starving. Haven't eaten ALL day. I'm at the buffet table, getting first crack at everything. (My wine glass is in a safe spot while I load up my plate.)

I'm the freshly polished and dusted main decorative showstopper in the cramped salon: the Maison Jansen brass AND chrome chinoiserie etagère loaded with earth-toned Jugendstil majolica. Several guests sit idly pondering how this affair might be less uneasy making. If only the etagere wasn't two-toned? Swap the dingy majolica for mid-century Bitossi? Greasefire?

I'm the quick exit at the end of the meal when the host discovers the dishwasher is not working and ask for help in hand washing all the dishes and utensils.

I’m the Royal Doulton with the hand-painted periwinkles.

I’m the embarrassment and gagging from the gays when Beth and Tank recognise the turkey baster as the same one they borrowed for their failed insemination attempt.

I am the realization that each of the attendees posts snarky shit on Datalounge .

LOL!!!

I'm the moist-eyed toast to friends and lovers who died of AIDS 30 to 40 years ago.

I'm the moist-ass hot appetizers that one friend insisted upon bringing and hogging the oven with

I'm the loud moaning coming from the roommate's room as he gets his own turkey stuffed by that horndog Brad

I'm the guest rearranging tchotchkes on the sly.

I’m rival queens hissing at each other with their eyes.

I'm the long gone gay be these friends spent the 1980s in. They all wish they could go back for a twirl one more time.

long gone gay bar

I'm the conspiracy theories about the Covid vaccines causing people to drop dead that everyone starts talking about after a few sippy poos.

I'm the Datalounger who intones "I have sufficient" after being offered seconds. He's disheartened to discover that no one else understands the reference.

I’m the Frasier and Niles-esque snickering that occurs when one guest insists cranberry sauce should be in the shape of the can.

I'm the jeering laughter when the group prisspot accidentally lets out a fart after his third cocktail.

I’m the pretentious queen prancing around in my velvet Versace loafers.

I'm the ham-handed fumble two of the old friends have in the pantry which results in careless whispers

Sex in the cities

r112, My coat is on that bed!

I'm Jack. Wine is flowing all around the house, more wine than anyone can imagine, glasses tinkling, everyone getting into the Thanksgiving spirit. I hate wine. My consternation that the hosts haven't opened their bar and they don't even have any Coca-Cola is growing by the minute. Knowing it's gonna be ice water for me all afternoon is likely to darken the festivities considerably.

I'm the next door neighbor who calls the police once the Ethel Merman routine begins in the outdoor hot tub at 1 in the morning.

I'm the gram of coke, snuck in by two of the guests who take it in turns to have a sneaky line between courses because this dinner is so DULL.

I’m the old queen who used to do drag. My persona comes out more and more with each drink in the form of very loud, but forced, bitchy quips. I cause a lot of eye-rolling.

I’m the host’s unstable ex who stumbles in to drop off his keys late in the evening, causing a bitter stir like Betty Lynn in ANOTHER WOMAN.

Everyone’s terribly uncomfortable.

I'm the gag rat the host serves up to his queeniest guest, a la Bette to Joan in Baby Jane. No one under 50 gets the joke.

I'm Connie Green Bean Casserole.

I’m the twunk getting humped by Brad on the kitchen counter. I delay serving dessert by about twenty minutes, but those seated in the dining room seem to enjoy the noise.

I'm the reference to Greg's prunes. No one under 60 gets the joke.

R130 I’m the rubber worms put in the leftover turkey sandwich the next day, referencing the Redgrave remake. Not even the recipient gets that joke.

I'm the days and weeks spent agonising over table displays, centre pieces and other frivolities, contrasted by the few hours given to what food to defrost and serve.

I'm Sheldon (or "Shel," for short). I'm the drama queen of the group. People take turns listening to me talk about my latest family and work dramas. Pete's the only one in the group who rolls his eyes right in my face. I avoid Pete until I've fully vented my frustrations to everyone else at this Friendsgiving.

I’m Chuck finding a wire hanger in the coat closet. Everyone sighs, knowing what is to come.

I'm the last minute cancellations from invitees when they hear Chuck is on the guest list.

I'm the 4 in a group of 1s and 2s. I'm so getting laid tonight!

I'm the half-arsed, ill-informed political debate. "Israel should so let Darfur Orphan back in to Palestine"

I’m Jeffrey’s complete lack of willpower when it comes to seconds and thirds. He blames the host for his ever spreading figure.

“You’re the one who turned me into this…POTATO that you see before us!”

I show up with booze and get drunk, stay drunk and leave drunk. I take an Uber home but won’t come back for my car until after December 2nd.

I'm the inevitable disintegration of the group post dessert. The elder eldergays retreat to the 'lounge' to watch I Love Lucy on betamax. The middling elders hang out in the kitchen discussing the Royal Family.

Those under 45 try their damnedest to get a wifi signal so they can uber the fuck outta there.

I'm the eldergay who keeps slipping out to the porch for a Parliament.

I miss the days when everyone smoked and the smokers had their own party within a party.

I’m the hasty reintegration of the group when Brian calls out for all to hear that “The Davids” have uploaded a sex tape to PornHub.

I'm the snarky asides at the elder host's lack of libido.

"So, you stuffed it yourself?" (turkey)

"Is it usually this soft" (mashed potato)

I'm the host's elderly pug dog, "Jazz," short for Jasmine. I've been mingling with guests, accepting handouts. I'll probably vomit, at some point, on one of the Oriental carpets.

I actually wish I had an eldergay thanksgiving to go to. So many of my friends have moved away, dropped dead or are traveling.

I got a halfhearted text invitation today from my brother wanting to know if I’m “coming or not?” This is the first I’ve heard of a family (three of us) Thanksgiving dinner and actually it is the first time I’ve heard from since Easter.

The dinner is going to be take-out from one of those smoked BBQ joints.

I’m the nude roommate calling out “I have NOT had sufficient,” prompting the twink and the twunk to collide in a race to the bedroom door.

I'm the one toilet in the whole house.

Guests can't avoid the sight of a cobwebbed douche, hemorrhoid ointment, denture adhesive.

I’m Chuck giving Tony the Heimlich manoeuvre.

Neither stops after the bit of turkey’s been hacked up.

I'm the fiesta ware. This year I remain safely in storage after a near fatal incident last year involving a sunset orange bowl being used in a bukkake scenario.

I’m the host angrily wanting to know who shoved a buttplug into the turkey’s cavity.

Nobody’s confessing, everybody’s giggling.

I'm Mary Tyler Moore. Yes, I know I'm long dead. But dammit I feel alive, for two brief hours, as these aging, balding gays talk about the good ol' days with a little sadness, a little laughter, and a helluva lot of pluck.

I’m the “fashionably late” arrival of Dwight and Algernon, whose uncanny resemblance to Mitch and Cam makes everyone lose their appetite.

I'm a pair of the roommate's worn briefs that once of the party guests steals from the laundry pamper. No chance I got these mixed up with the hosts as they're 4 times smaller

I’m Shel’s failed attempts to disguise his hatred of the green bean casserole, looking like Lucy swigging Vitametavegamin with each bite.

Icy glares ensue, followed by Sheldon’s snarky “may I be excuuuused?”

huh?

I’m spinning Out of Control!

R158, was that in response to R157?

I was referencing earlier posts that mentioned drama queen Sheldon and a green bean casserole.

Oh, Sheldon, please, Sheldon.

I’m the drunken queen’s idea to re-enact the Thanksgiving food fight from Cheers. I go down like a ton of bricks.

[quote]I’m the one of the group who always had a babyface and recently got Botox and now looks like a cross between Neil Patric Harris and a stroke victim. —Teacake

We always suspected you were.

[quote]the laundry pamper

Oh, dear.

I'm the truly insane friend trying to reenact the nasty family meal from "the Bear"

I’m “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” loaded onto the karaoke machine for after dinner.

I’m sung with the modified “Vel commercial” lyrics.

I’m Bruce’s light and creamy pumpkin chiffon pie.

I’m the host’s hysterics when a glop of Bruce’s light and creamy pumpkin chiffon pie lands on mother’s Portuguese lace table runner.

Sparkles will lick it up

I'm the am-dram performer who never quite made it big, dying for an opening to recreate the dinner scene from August: Osage County. I spent 2 hours last night making sure I had Violet's lines perfect. Who wants to be Barb?

I'm the drive thru' McDonalds all the dinner guests visit separately en route home from the dinner party.

I’m “Cousin Mildred.”

No, I’m not a real cousin…I’m the host’s drag alter-ego he trots out to serve the hors d’oeuvres.

The pink suit is from the 80s and the buttons no longer fasten, while the Shirley Temple wig is in dire need of a thorough shampooing.

I make every guest in attendance question his life choices.

I am the hideous Peruvian street art every guest feels compelled to complement.

I am the new boyfriend, a hideous Peruvian street whore every guest feels compelled to complement.

I'm R174 and at least 4 of these hissing Queens make a not-so-subtle pass at me, one even trying to follow me into the bathroom to 'pet my polla'!

They assume because I'm hot and foreign I'm anyone's for a few bucks but don't realise that I'm in love with their buddy and love riding on his beercan cock on the daily.

I’m the arthritis and incontinence.

I'm the more intense discussion about Britney Jean's memoir.

It's compliment, not complement, the way you guys are using the word.

I’m Jonathan swiftly and sharply correcting Robert when the latter refers to the dressing as stuffing.

I'm Bill. I'm ladling gravy on top of everything that's on my plate.

People are shooting daggers at me because there's never enough gravy to go around at the Friendsgiving.

I’m flatulent Phil letting one loose near a candle, causing mother’s red velvet drapes to go up in flames.

I'm the eager bottom who has a Scruff date with a hung daddy top later that night. As I stares longingly at the meal, I tell everyone I just came from my family Tday dinner and am too stuffed for even one more bite. Oh, my family lives outside of Phoenix.

I’m the argument snout whether it’s stuffing or dressing.

[quote]It's compliment, not complement, the way you guys are using the word.

I'm someone's last invitation. to Friendsgiving.

I am Frank, the fat slob, briefly fit and hot at 22, who has given up decades ago and thoroughly enjoys the meal and the third servings.

I'm Frank's lack of table manners, loudly and unashamedly belching and commenting about his hope that the host has a strong flush on his 'crapper'. I almost cause 2 seperate fainting spells and much consternation.

I’m the host’s gift from Deanie the Lesbian: a jar of Crisco and a handwritten note announcing “Happy Fistgiving!”

[quote]I am the hideous Peruvian street art every guest feels compelled to complement.

OMG I almost choked reading this, it is SO true

I'm the Gen Z friends who arrived late, empty-handed, unkempt looking and with a list of food and pronoun restrictions.

I’m all the guests sitting and watching David choke himself to death.

I’m the homeowner furiously checking his insurance policy

I'm the host's internal voice: "Sweet Lord Jesus, I am NEVER doing this again!".

[quote]I’m flatulent Phil letting one loose near a candle, causing mother’s red velvet drapes to go up in flames.

Mother should be accustomed to flamers by now.

I am the fear that most of this is true as I am nearing the Thursday dinner.

I'm the still-frozen turkey which the hosts were sure would thaw in just 24 hours. I'll be roasted deliciously next Sunday when the unexpectedly vegetarian Thanksgiving is just a horrifying memory and the hosts can have it all to themselves.

I’m one of the Gen Z’ers with a dead cellphone, attempting to call an Uber on the host’s rotary phone.

I’ll never be able to leave this place.

I'm Grindr getting a rigourous workout today. Most of the guests are discretely (so they think) are usng me to find some post-Friendsgiving coitus.

And ALL of those guests that are on Grindr are using profile pics at least 15 years out of date. ^^^^

I’m the unexpected power outage, promoting everyone in attendance (excluding the Gen Z’ers, the twink and the twunk) to launch into a simultaneous rendition of Julia Sugarbaker’s “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” rant.

I'm the guest scrolling Grindr on the toilet and wondering how it's possible for 8 ripped hot guys to be 10 feet away from me.

I’m the gasps that ensue when one of the youngins asks “Judy who?”

Cue whipping out the Carnegie Hall LPs.

I am the Diana Scream reenactment when the humorous (or so he thinks) Twink suddenly announces that Madonna is dead.

I am the bag of meth waiting in Doug’s backpack. I may come out after David and David and the obnoxious queen are gone and the twink sends the right signals.

I’m the argument about how pecan pie should be pronounced.

I am the gratefulness that we are still here, with warts and all, although we expected to die before 40. I am a genuine feeling.

I'm the empty bottles of Pinot Noir.

I am that roiling anxiety that picks up speed on Thanksgiving week - what have I done to offend? I haven’t gotten any of the usual check ins or calls - even the poor frumpy Houlihan sisters from my childhood …. Have I been too flip? Did everyone believe me when I said I wasn’t “doing” Thanksgiving this year? …… My normal fast food places are closed Thursday ….. Let me check my texts ……. Marie Callandars - a turkey tv dinner ….Well, I have to give the cat his sub q fluids anyway ….. I should go volunteer and feed the homeless . …. snap out of it look at those poor people in Israel and Gaza …… Is there going to be a West Wing Marathon? …….

R207, you can go to the restaurant I'm scheduled to eat at on Thursday. I'd love to stay home with Marie Callender's instead.

I’m the pills

I’m the Aldi Bailey’s Irish Cream knock-off discarded by the host as an unworthy complement to his feast. When the gin dries up I will be hurled into shot glasses to keep the party going.

I’m the in-depth comparisons of Barbra’s audiobook to Michelle Williams’s rendition of Britney’s audiobook.

[quote]most of the guests are discretely Oh, dear.

I was the 20-something "young straggler" at one of these events and got a tongue-lashing from some old queen for not going into the kitchen to help wash dishes afterward. Most of what I'm reading in this thread is pretty spot on.

Well? Did you go into the kitchen to help wash dishes?

I got out of it by dropping trou, R214

better to put out than put up

I am the liquid accident Flatulent Bill has as he tries to silently pass one. I am slowly working my way down the left leg…

I’m the Nathan Lane-esque guest who catches on to Bill’s accident.

“Oh my god, did you SHIT!?!? Get off the carpet NOW! Next time, wear a buttplug or Depends! Preferably both!”

Im the Bruce Villanch -like guest who screams: “wear a napkin for god’s sake!”

I'm Bruce Villanch's t-shirt with a snarky quote that is smeared with turkey gravy and pumpkin pie.

Gross R217 Is flatulence that common among the eldergays?

“That bothers me”

R215 did you let more than one guest sample the delights of your hot young body?

When did gays become so obsessed with shit and farting?

When they got old.

Watch Golden Bachelor.

The old ladies are obsessed with gas and farting.

Let’s just say that certain muscles are not as tight as they used to be, R224.

And kegels can only do some much

R213, did you get ravished in the vintage chopping block?

This is being older, gay or straight or whatever

I’m the playful “Mommie Dearest” banter between courses (“you’re not getting up from this table until you have Finished. That. Dark. Meat!”)

I’m ground to a halt when one of the Gen-Z’ers says it’s “triggering” because he has a “ narcissistic” mother.

Deafening silence, followed by Todd’s “Declan, I want to talk to you…in the OTHER room!”

A little after dinner dancing:

I'm the consternation that 'Gone With The Wind' isn't being shown anywhere on TV. The host offers his Blu-Ray copy but the guest claims "It isn't the same.."

I’m Algernon’s slides from Fire Island, 1996.

I’m the quiet fury around the table when one of Bryan’s twinks holds up Liza’s Results CD and asks who this is….

I'm the raucous guests blasting music in the kitchen, and the quiet, conversational types holed up in the bedroom because someone's toddler claimed the TV in the Living Room. Every half hour there's a failed attempt at cross pollination, but we all end up right back where we started.

I'm the realization, while looking at photos of Friendsgivings past, that the number of new guests invited to supplement those who've moved away exceed the few remaining members of the original group for the first time. It's always nice to get together and meet new people, but it will never be the same...

"When did gays become so obsessed with shit and farting?"

Certainly not prior to fucking. Nothing worse than a shitty, undouched hole.

I'll never attend a friendsgiving at any home without a bidet.

I’m the guests raving about the host’s “homemade” stuffing, while the box of StoveTop lies hiding at the bottom of the trash can.

I’m just raving

I’m the serving tray.

I'm the trigger warning that needs to accompany R241!

I'm the guest misreading the tray as an invitation for "later".

r242=MichFest alumna

I’m the intense debates about who is better Madonna or Cindy Lauper.

I'm the after-dinner surprise Jarvis brought from the "Get It While It's Hot Erotic Bake Shop". I'm not in the shape of Florida..

[quote] someone's toddler claimed the TV in the Living Room.

There are no toddlers at an eldergay Friendsgiving.

the thought is inconceivable

I'm the closed bedroom door with someone sobbing on the other side.

The host whispers to his other guests, "Something made him think about Roger."

Everyone nods sympathetically.

R245, I'm the young friend (age 42) who blithely interjects that Madonna and Cyndi are OK if you like nostalgia acts, but for sheer talent and staying power, Janet is the ultimate Diva.

I don't realize that I have just branded myself Persona Non Grata with everyone in the room. There won't be a Friendsgiving for me next November.

I’m one of mother’s crystal candy bowls, passed around as a tip jar to try and persuade the twunk to clear the table in the nude.

I’m the flicker effect electric candle next to mother’s urn.

I am the Eldergay reading the “Let’s be an Eldergay Friendsgiving” threat out loud during the Eldergay Friendsgiving.

I'm sudden and collective anal tightening when, unexpectedly, Jeryth arrives and announces their pronouns.

I'm the host's apron with its cunning colorful drawings of shirtless construction workers.

I'm the large bowl of colorful gourds with the rotten ones hidden at the bottom.

I’m the vintage steve kelso colt calendar in the bathroom

I'm the guest hand towels in the bathroom. These towels are more decorative than absorbent. Nobody really likes using them. Paper towels would have been better. Oh, well.

I'm the roll of toilet paper that has maybe 7 sheets left on it. Steve will be bold enough to open up the under-sink cabinet and dig out an extra roll.

I’m the pumpkin spice condoms in a bowl by the door.

I'm the host who is SO grateful to Mabel (practically a member of the family!) who polished silver all week long and is now "helping out" in the kitchen.

I'm Jason, at 28 the closest thing this gathering will have to a twink. I pestered the host repeatedly with "what should I bring," and was told, "Bring some good vanilla ice cream for the pie." I show up with a carton of already melting Blue Bunny Neapolitan "frozen dairy dessert" in a translucent plastic ShopRite bag. I hand it to the host, who takes it with an expression of undisguised disgust. I don't notice because I'm off to hug/shriek in recognition of Brad across the room.

I’m brad going into anaphylactic shock upon. eating red dye number two in the ice cream

I'm Danielle, the fag hag with the big gift box of homemade gluten-free cookies that everyone will feel obligated to sample before they dig into the Costco chocolate pecan pie.

I’m the keto fag and hated by all.

I’m Jimmy and I’ve lost 40 pounds on Ozempic - with 10 more to go - since the last time these bitches saw me.

I gaze at all the food, eat nothing, burp a lot, and silently judge everyone here.

I’m everyone judging the mudflaps hanging from Jimmy‘s arms

I'm Mother's portrait hanging in the dining room, casting a cold, mirthless, disapproving gaze on the day's festivities.

I’m the supremely depressing Thanksgiving night bathhouse visit on the way home. Just a quick stop.

I'm the discussion about how they never got the appeal of Elaine Stritch.

"I mean I know we're all SUPPOSED to have liked her, but I just couldn't bear her. And yes I KNOW that makes me a bad gay, but I just COULDN'T with her."

That’s not a cold look R267!

I’m Friday’s devastating farts.

I’m Miss Sissy Boodles hiding in terror under Mother’s old bed.

I'm the beast with two backs made by Jason & Brad on R272, causing poor Miss Sissy Boodles to produce a puddle of piss, located approximately one week later by no-nonsense Mabel.

I'm the formal tea service, which of course was Mother's, which will be wheeled out shortly.

I am the sudden drop in mood when Bill reads the “Let’s be an Eldergay Friendsgiving” threat out loud during the Eldergay Friendsgiving. Because Mike, David, and David realize that someone writes about THEM!

OH, The HUmanity!

I am the words James drunkenly, loudly begins warbling, the words that strike terror in those who know him too well: "With my high starched collar and my high-top shoes...."

Shaun and I attended the Eldergay Friendsgiving in San Diego on Monday night. Marc is flying back to Montgomery County (Philly) on Wed. for his older brother last turkey day. We went to Wharton together in the late 80's. He knows all my 80's and 1990's secrets from Philly and NYC. We had sooo many friends and lovers die from HIV, neither of us got sick.

Marc and I had a "1 question game" that we had to be completely honest with the answer we gave, no lies.

i'm the BI%TCH

I’m Miss Sissy Boodles. I’ve actually been stuffed since 2013.

I'm that guest's little dog. Even though my masters assured the host I'd be no trouble, I've been shitting under the master bedroom's king sized bed.

I'm Sheila. I wasn't invited, but after 4 bountiful glasses of Charlie Mingus' special-recipe egg nog, Alan disappears and Sheila takes over. "Alan? Who's Alan? My name is SHEILA! And I am FABULOUS!"

I’m Marc complimenting Rick and Steve on the track lighting. “It really brings out the vividness of the Peruvian street art!”

I'm the underemployed gay working as a retail clerk who hates the world and is sharpening his claws to critique your cooking.

I'm Barbra's Greatest Hits on the stereo.

I'm Bette Midler's Greatest Hits, which has now replaced Barbra's Greatest Hits, playing on the stereo. This prompts one of the Davids to exclaim "I've always loved Bette Midler, she's such a hoot!"

I’m Miss Sissy Boodle’s bed, a scale replica of her master’s.

I am Robert's phone. I ring during the appetizer and Robert's face tenses up instantly when he sees the screen. He leaves the table to take the call and snippets are heard through the bedroom door. "Yes, of [italic]course[/italic] I care about them. .... Because I didn't want to bother them while they were with their cousins --Oh, HI, sweetie! How is everything? Are you having a good meal at Grandma's?..."

r288 = Mart Crowley

I'm the "stereo" that they're playing the Barbara and Bette records on.

Milton yelled to "turn down that HiFi".

R284, that’s called a shopbottom.

I’m the intense giggling and whispering when the older crowd discover two of the young stragglers are named Richard and Froy.

I'm Rex Reed.

I’m the discreet, under-the-table BJ horndog Brad gives to Froy.

I’m Michael Musto.

I'm Milky Loads. The doorman has been shown my picture and has been instructed not to buzz me up.

I'm the new Dolly Parton "Rockstar" album, which Michael and Richard swear is "an absolute scream."

I’m the lesbians marvelling at the lack of nutloaf jokes so far tonight.

I’m the hosts reuniting this morning after breaking up last night in a vicious confrontation over the arrangement of the place settings.

I’m the host couple spending the day before making Martha Stewart’s gourd candles for centrepieces.

We’re furious when several of our drunken guests remove the candles and try putting something else in the holes instead.

I'm one-half of the host couple beginning to carve the turkey and loudly announcing "we should have said 'fuck it' just like Martha".

I’m Mitchel but everyone called me Missy. I’m the life of the party and will spill my red wine on the white sofa. I’ve somehow wormed my way into this group of friends, and my back stories have fooled the majority of the group except for three queens who picked up on the inconsistencies and stare daggers at me. I’m wanted in another state for bank fraud and will be chased down in a mall by a bounty hunter the following summer. The three queens will gloat the following Thanksgiving. ‘’Told you bitches’.

Does Mitchell also go by the name Kitara sometimes?

I’m the three Andrews in attendance, who of course have to do their “Anders Sisters” routine, much to everyone’s chagrin.

“Andrews Sisters”. Oh, dear.

If you're going to title a thread 'Eldergay' anything, you should be required to state your own age. How old are you OP?

12

To R286, I am the "elder gay" who requested that Marc play Bette Midler instead of Barbra. I said, "Barbra having her moment, plus she has a Mall; I need to hear some Bette" Then those nasty bitches tried to start picking on me about meeting with the Gen Z'ers plus the HRC & DNC meetings in Wash DC a few weeks ago (about fundraising).

Not an eldergay in the bunch!

Catered by Fairway or Fresh Direct, R309? No way any of those twinks would know how to make a jello mold, let alone a ham or turkey.

R308 what were you meeting them for and was it productive?

I'm the corn flake topping my husband insisted on sprinkling on his otherwise perfect sweet potato casserole. I hope our guests will be amused.

To R312, my neighbor makes her sweet potato casserole and does the same thing with it. I love it that way.

BTW, I love corn flakes too. Her mom's Irish cook did that to make the children eat the sweet potatoes. loved it.

I'm Bryan Singer. The turkey is fine, but I was promised CHICKEN!

I'm that eldergay, scrambling from one 7-11 to another, trying to buy that cranberry sauce, the hubs forgot to buy. I'd even settle for the canned variety!

I'm the host's morning-after declarations to his partner that, from now until summer, with maybe a little break at Christmas, he's going to be on an extremely strict "regimen."

He holds firm to this vow until he opens the fridge and is confronted by leftover mashed potatoes, stuffing, turkey, gravy, and pie.

The diet starts tomorrow.

I’m the whirling dildo used to whip the potatoes when the KitchenAid mixer goes on the fritz.

I'm the early morning Thanksgiving dump the next day.

I'm the WhatsApp group the guests have set up but excluding the host.

This night is gonna get a bigger roasting than that dried out old turkey we were served.

r319 = why I limit my gay male friendships to a few very close friends

I'm the deflating feeling the host feels the next morning when the majority of the text messages he receives are from the guests wanting horndog Brad's phone number.

Not a single request for a recipe!

I'm all the calories horndog Brad is gonna burn between now and Christmas.

And it won't be from working out in the gym.

I'm all those boring Instagram photos of food displays, table settings and middle aged pot bellies on your feed right now.

R139

I'm a scathing review of our hosts' Friendsgiving gala, I am accidentally posted to the WA group which INCLUDES the hosts.

I’m the head of lettuce angrily chucked at the smug vegan.

“DIG IN, BITCH!”

I'm the resurfacing feelings of rejection the host feels when one of the guests drunkenly shows him the WhatsApp chat, probably around Christmas time. Thanks R319, turn on disappearing messages next time!

I'm the prissy fussing by the host the morning after as he brings back out the fiesta ware, hummel figurines and mother's thimble collection, now that danger has passed.

I'm the prissy fussing by the host the morning after as he brings back out the fiesta ware, hummel figurines and mother's thimble collection, now that danger has passed.

I'm the radiation emitted by Mother's vintage postwar red Fiestaware set. Nothing to worry about. Each piece in the 24-piece set emits only 10 milliRoentgens per hour. Hour after hour. Decade after decade.

I'm the grisly discovery of a generously skidmarked pair of Hanes, size 36, thrown into the bathtub last night and hidden by the shower curtain.

The host has his suspicions about who had the accident, but he knows none of the guests will cop to it. Not because of the humiliation of the "accident," but because not one of the 14 people present would ever admit to having a 36-inch waist -- or, far more humiliating, wearing Hanes tighty-whities.

Gay Friendsgiving seems to include a lot of pooping accidents

Tomorrow is another day! I’m Ms Scarlett O’Hara - released from my armoire protection and back pride of place on the pink satin bed cushions - safe from Marcus for another year.

I am the desperate feeling that I need to keep this thread going until it hits 600.

I'm the increase in sales of diarrhoea meds amongst guests. Was the food defrosted and cooked through? Either way, I'm spraying liquid shit out my ass like silly string.

I’m the post eating and drinking tiredness that sets in.

We all retreat to the living room, put on the Golden Girls and watch silently.

[quote]The host has his suspicions about who had the accident, but he knows none of the guests will cop to it. Not because of the humiliation of the "accident," but because not one of the 14 people present would ever admit to having a 36-inch waist -- or, far more humiliating, wearing Hanes tighty-whities.

I would gladly admit to both, since I'm wearing size 50 Fruit-of-the-Looms. But then I wasn't invited, was I?

I'm the host the day after, with a fridge full of food but eating french-fried onion strings from the can over the sink.

I’m the Friday morning sniffles that induce sheer panic and unhinged blaming.

[quote]Gay Friendsgiving seems to include a lot of pooping accidents

Because some unfortunately prolific DL-ers think that scat jokes are hilarious.

I'm the host desperately trying to get the pee stain in the carpet left by that fag hag Danielle's little morkie-poo on their way out of the apartment.

[quote]Gay Friendsgiving seems to include a lot of pooping accidents

Because some prolific DL-ers think that scat jokes are hilarious.

I’m the host that trots out eggnog made from Eudora Welty’s recipe. My eyes are windmilling as every guest looks at me questioningly.

R330 surely the culprit would be more likely to chuck the soiled undergarment out of the bathroom window, landing in next door's azalea bush? In which case, I'm the profuse apologies to the low-key homophobe neighbour who suspects the host have been throwing a filthy orgy

I’m the uninvited nude roommate’s scathing Instagram video the following day, bitching to everyone about why he wasn’t invited and how it was entirely the host’s fault.

There’s also an OnlyFans link to watch his shenanigans with Brad and the twunk.

I'm the Gen Z guest unloading to his tiktok followers.

"Oh my gawd, they were fucking ancient! At least one of them was like 50!"They were all like singing along to a song by Madonna that was totally a hundred years old. I think she's Sam Smith's mother?" "They eat carbs and no one there was wearing size appropriate clothes".

I'm the horror when the host, browsing Instagram a few days later, notices that one of the guests has posted an antivax meme. I'm the fear when the host realizes he has developed a slight cough in the last 24 hours. This is followed by a manic spraying, wiping, cleansing ritual in every room of the house.

I’m the understated bitchiness that pervades the evening.

“This is homemade? Well done, it tastes exactly like why I bought at the store last week.”

“This must’ve taken a lot of time and effort. It’s no wonder you didn’t have time to do your hair, bless you.”

Your second remark, r347? Understated?

We're the fun lesbian couple that has brought our new-ish puppy to this gathering. She's still too young to be left alone at home, so we have to bring her everywhere, or decline invitations. We are now going to insist that you help us train the little pup. We will be dishing out instructions what to do if little Post-It jumps on your chest, tries to steal a morsel from your plate etc. We insist that you do it correctly, that's the only way Post-It will learn.

We're the rest of the guests getting super annoyed at this bit of nonsense. We smile adorignly at little Post-It, but really would rather someone lock her up in the basement and let her go hog wild.

R348 That was after a few glasses of Sherry. For him, it was understated.

I'm an eldergay and throwing a "leftovers" party today. My party is always more fun

"Mother NEVER would've served cranberry from a can! How vulgar! OUR cranberry sauce was always prepared by Beulah, who chopped fresh cranberries."

I’m the ambulance arriving.

I’m

I’m the guest who has an entire turkey and side dishes in the car “just in case.”

I'm the prisspot who fancies himself an oenophile. Upon being offered a glass of 2019 Gallo Signature Series Cabernet Sauvignon, he sniffs, "Oh, what a playful selection! I didn't realize we were drinking California Cabernet. I would've bought a box of the stuff at 7-11 and saved you a few dollars, dear!"

I’m the charming intellect and precise storytelling of delicate seasoning.

[quote] I'm the prisspot who fancies himself an oenophile.

I’m Rose, who thinks that means “person who enjoys masturbating.”

I’m Bob rehearsing his tearful, heartfelt coming-out speech in front of all his friends, which he plans to share with mother at their family Thanksgiving later.

Marcel offers his appraisal. “Honey, after 56 years of caftans and Chinese slippers, I think she already knows.”

No she would not, R359. Not consciously. Bob has just not met the right girl yet that understands his artistic, creative side.

I'm Choupette, the host's white Persian cat. I have the best gaydar in history and can tell a bossy bottom from a sub bottom at a sniff. The bottom guests get my hissy, scratchy side and I will pee in their shoes later on. I kiss up to the only top at the table. And so does my owner, in a whirl of silk caftans and Jean-Paul Gaultier's Le Male.

I'm Chad, arriving solo. Brian and I are fighting, again.

I am the really bad last-minute cold that Brian supposedly has.

I'm the Daddy Bear Grindr hookup who caused Brian to pick the fight with Chad and develop a "cold". I'll be stuffing Brian's turkey several times while Chad is gone. I'll also be the reason Brian and Chad breakup before Christmas and Brian moves out... to move in with me!

I am the Turkey leftovers and Cranberry sauce Chad brought home to make up with Brian. I will end in the trash once Chad realizes that Brian is high as fuck and his cellphone is all greased up.

I’m Brian and Chad gearing up for a spin-off thread.

This thread is fucking depressing.

R366 - I'm someone hoping for a Brian and Chad spin-off thread for Christmas!

Please stop trying to make Brian and Chad happen, it's boring and it's killing a wonderful thread!

I’m Chuck enjoying the leg and thigh meat.

Not the turkey’s.

Chuck is unwanted here too.

I’m the host counting Mother’s silver before any guest has a chance to leave.

I'm the host, reminiscing about how only Beulah could polish Mother's silver just so.

With her cunt, R373.

I'm Jacob, praising "this fabulous reproduction Saarinen Knoll Tulip dining set! Very thrifty, with the price of vintage Saarinen so high!"

The host turns, a frozen, tight smile on his face. "Reproduction?"

I’m elder-fatigued and glad this weekend is over.

Fuck off R369 We're just having fun as we're supposed to with this. Some people (read: trolls) take things way too seriously.

I’m the “accident” which befalls mother’s China after Chad and Chuck are told they’re not wanted.

[quote]I'm the drive thru' McDonalds all the dinner guests visit separately en route home from the dinner party.

I'm the drive thru worker who is seriously pissed off to see you because if our store is open on Thanksgiving it means we didn't meet our revenue goals.

[quote]This thread is fucking depressing.

And it also stopped being funny, despite a good start.

I'm Aunt Mabel who, with her festive cheese-ball, unfortunately decided to pay a surprise Thanksgiving visit and has a bemused look as she is introduced to each of the guests ("Are the ladies in the kitchen washing the dishes?", she whispers to the host).

I am Robert's homemade pumpkin chiffon cupcakes, laced with (surprise!) THC butter. Hilarity ensues a couple hours later when everyone is trying to get ready to go and realizes they aren't in any shape to go anywhere. Much laughter from everyone except the exhausted host, who is tired, achy, crotchety, and ready to collapse into bed and fall asleep to Murder She Wrote reruns on FreeVee.

I’m the host anxiously awaiting this night to be over, only so he can start with the Christmas decorations.

He can’t wait to hear the compliments on the newest additions to his Byers Choice Carolers collection at the Eldergay Christmas Party.

I'm the host, explaining to Aunt Mabel that all the boys are "going stag" today. He then has to repeat it much more loudly in her good ear. "I said GOING STAG, Aunt Mabel! No wives today!"

"Oh! I see! Then I'll leave you boys to your sports and cars and hunting talk," she says with a wink, heading for the door. "Enjoy the cheesy ball!"

Aunt Mabel isn't going anywhere, not after that cupcake she ate

I’m the conversation about whether or not Bebe Neuwirth is enough to spend another $300 to see Cabaret, since we have all seen Cabaret 6-7 times already.

I’m the eldergay who never went to an Eldergay Friendsgiving.

[quote] I’m the conversation about whether or not Bebe Neuwirth is enough to spend another $300 to see Cabaret, since we have all seen Cabaret 6-7 times already.

I'm the uninvited guy who can tell you dumb queens to stay home, she isn't.

To R290, I have one of them from the early 1950's in Cherry Mahoganey. I had it fixed 2 yrs. ago, upgraded everything inside, CD player. Medium dark cherry color matches the wooden tables perfectly. All from the early 1950s.

My ex-father- in law says to me on Thanksgiving, "That looks like Esther's HiFi" I'm like "that is Aunt Esther's record player, upgraded to 2021" I told him, all the wooden furniture is Esther's and her 2nd husband, she left all the mid-century wooden tables-dining room set.

Such an important piece of information, R389. Now I shall sleep in peace.

I'm the very drunk queen responding loudly to R388 that "well, Bebe might not be worth it, but the 2200 dollars I spent for center orchestra seats, 4th row, so Christopher and I could see Bette in 'DOLLY' was worth EVERY PENNY!"

I'm the smirk on R388's face when he hears how much R391 wildly overpaid for a meh performance in a meh production.

I'm Aunt Mabel, stoned and confused in a corner, hard of hearing but able to hear the stentorian queen from R391. I respond, equally loudly, "I'd say it sounds like you have MORE MONEY THAN SENSE, young man!," and then cackle madly at my own wit.

I'm aunt Mabel again, slurring "I don't think any of them have girlfriends, Missy" into the dog's ear.

Apparently Aunt Mabel has usurped this thread from Brian and Chad.

Brian and Chad sure sound jealous of that.

I don't even remember who Brian and Chad are.

Well then R390, I am glad I can help you finally sleep and learn to relax.

That is the reason for the Thanksgiving season!!

The thing about an Eldergay Friendsgiving dinner is that at least a few guests or the host knows what to do in the kitchen, and at some point a nice meal will actually be served.

I wouldn't even guess what might be served at a Millennial, or Gen Z Friendsgiving!

Bagels delivered from Door Dash. Or sushi.

I’m Bertram sharing his “sitting next to Kristin Chenoweth on a plane” story for the umpteenth time.

Marcel: “That story’s had more performances than South Pacific!”

I'm the 1960s Drexel Heritage dining room set, curated at twelve estate sales over seven years. I am exactly like the set Meemaw had, around which the family gathered every Thanksgiving for thirty-seven years. Her set went to a druggie cousin, who sold it on Craigslist in 2006 for $100. There is nothing of Meemaw's in this house, as the family disowned and shunned the disgraceful homosexual when he came out of the closet in 1993. We tell new friends that these are "family pieces," but old friends know the real story.

I'm Brian. Chad's been away at the Friendsgiving for a couple of hours now. I'll just send Chad a short text:

"bring me a plate plz"

I'm the small hole on the bottom of Mike's socks that snagged and is now an embarrassment. Mike's walking around like a foot bound Chinese woman so that the hole doesn't show.

But James DOES NOT ALLOW SHOES IN THE HOME - EVER! It's TRASHY!

Poor Chris only has those half socks that keep falling off.

Steve's socks smell like moldy cheese cuz he always wears those heavy black boots.

[quote]R382 Much laughter from everyone except the exhausted host, who is tired, achy, crotchety, and ready to collapse into bed and fall asleep to Murder She Wrote reruns on FreeVee.

Won’t he be surprised when he finds that Ricky passed out drunk in there right after dinner. Everyone thought he’d left.

I’m the leftovers going into the Tupperware. The host has plenty, as he didn’t sell any at his last party…in 1989.

I’m the murder-suicide that ends Brian and Chad for good.

R407 save that story for their Xmas spin-off!

What's up R369 and R407 's ass? If we want to continue Brian and Chad we will. The trolling deranged cunt is under no obligation to read it.

I'm the demented label whore dropping designer name brands into every sentence. I don't hear the others whisper to the host that I should not be invited to any future gatherings because "he's not our kind, dear."

I googled it and it's gorgeous, R402! So sorry about your experience. Your meemaw would be proud of such a sophisticated grandson, though.

I'm the slippers that the host in R404 didn't offer to his guests after a whiff of Steve's feet reached his nose. "I'll be dashed if I let them rub their body odour off my Barbour Suede Tartan-Trim Monties!", the host hisses to his partner in the vestibule.

I’m the hot young neighbour who didn’t go home this year. Everyone tries to woo him over with whiffs of food, an occasional wink, and a few flashes of leg.

Brad finally goes over, and half-an-hour later returns with him, both looking sweaty and disheveled.

Is Brad an Eldegay or an assorted sugarbaby?

Brad's not young, but he's maybe 6 years younger than the core group of eldergays. No, he's not a sugar baby. But he does use that 6 years to his advantage. Or tries to.

I attended an Eldergay Friendsgiving this year and it was lovely. NO politics were discussed (well, we're all Dems) and the table topics included the upcoming Color Purple movie, old Christmas movies, our favorite Rihanna songs and rumors about her, and Shelley Winters. In agreement with the general consensus that she was an excellent actress, I remarked that if I were Montgomery Clift in A Place in the Sun, I'd have killed her too. My comment was (in the voice of the Zelig voiceover) coolly received. All of a sudden it was time for dessert!

Brad here. I am NOT 6 years younger than these old queens. I am barely touching 40. So fuck all of you!

Brad, you’re 48 if you’re a day and the barbed wire tattoo around your upper arm proves it.

R415, you have more willpower than I. My ass would have been out of there the minute they started talking about favorite Rihanna songs.

Seriously r418. I would've been bored to death with all of those topics of conversation.

I’m the small portrait of Eve Arden the host hangs on the far dining room wall.

Obligingly, the guests all ask if it’s Shelley Winters or Judy Holliday.

[quote] Seriously [R418]. I would've been bored to death with all of those topics of conversation.

I might have had fun talking about Shelley Winters, but I agree with the rest.

[quote] Brad, you’re 48 if you’re a day and the barbed wire tattoo around your upper arm proves it.

I'm 46, dammit! And I look 42.

I’m the guest who recently had Botox and collagen. I look unnervingly like an older George Santos.

Has anyone started a Christmas version of this? I want more!

Sorry, "Holiday" *sigh*

I'm one of the Davids having an explosive case of the shits as soon as he gets home. No butt lovin' from the other David tonight!

FOUND IT!

I would not go to any invite called “Friendsgiving”.

I’m every sitting around watching Liza With A Z after dinner.

*everyone