Thanksgiving Dorm Party – David Lohrey

Even the audience walked away from Arthur Miller, our most adult
of theatre artists, and took up with Edward Albee, the vaudeville 
crybaby grown bored of the Rye circuit. Here they stand, pissing
on blank canvasses and drawing pink moustaches onto Renaissance 
portraits. One guy added a tampon string dangling along the inner thigh 
of Ruben’s rotund chick. They’re sawing a Bernini sculpture in half.

It is the only way to get a show. Deconstruction is the thing. It’s chic.
Our professor told one of the kids if he wanted to be authentic he could
try taking a selfie of himself after committing suicide. His professor 
still thinks Andy Warhol is the shit. This is the gang who took over 
from John Singer Sargent and Hopper. They’re all atheists but they
thank God whenever they find a parking space.

Last year’s big hit was about boys swinging their bats and this year’s, 
about those who prefer to play with no bats at all. Somewhere between
Boys in the Band and Mama Mia, Broadway’s lost its nerve. The actors 
stand on stage and insult the audience. They promised Life with Father 
but the old man is a queen who can’t stop crying because his wife’s girdle
won’t fit. He comes on stage to say he isn’t sure the fucking bird will thaw.

Today’s assignment at MIT’s famous Graduate Writing School is to practice 
using a dildo without breaking one’s teeth. Only one student tries inserting 
it somewhere else, in that special place where the sun don’t shine. They play
spin the turkey grabbing hold of the wishbone to see if they can break it. 
People making stuffing are too stoned to peel the chestnuts. There’s water
on the bathroom floor because someone sold the shower curtain. 

Our young are beside themselves. They do so much fucking they positively
hate the opposite sex. They quit work the day they are offered a job. Girls 
are confused; they want boys to be submissive but expect to be fucked silly.
They command their partners to take them from behind and tell them to get 
ready to have the shit beat out of them. Guys have to ask permission
to take off their diapers. I have a classmate who still sucks his thumb. 

People of the rumor are upset. They hear things worth repeating but feel they’ll
be more successful if they keep things to themselves. The rich kids have that 
New England swagger, circa 1630. They sit at the front because they are the elect. 
They play with their food. They love to eat off of smeared plates; a guy named
Rothko works in the kitchen. Like atheists, they know God loves them. They’d
sell out in a minute to get ahead. They’re too stoned to mash the week-old potatoes.


Three guys brought spare ribs. There’s a pack of hot dogs on the floor under 
the kitchen table. They call this the art house but the people here don’t even 
like art, let alone produce it. Today’s discussion focuses on selling farmland 
to the Chinese. Someone brought up reports that the French rent out suites 
in the Eiffel Tower. Progressives call it progress. No point in worshipping 
JFK; wherever voters put their money, all they get is LBJ. 

One guy’s girlfriend insists on calling it Friendsgiving; she claims it is a sin
to think of stolen lands as something to be grateful for. I’d be thankful if she’d
shut up.  Horny men will pay anything, be it millions of Chinese yuan in Shanghai
or the same price for a piece of adolescent ass in Riga. Half of Americans 
will let you fuck their daughter while the others offer you their sons. People 
are desperate. Her professor says capitalism turns everyone into whores.

Congress demands the Vatican name a black American woman its next Pope; 
nothing else will do. We demand social justice now, scream the demonstrators 
at the White House. This time the smoke will be neither black nor white but grey. 
Many insist on a rainbow. White smoke shows the Vatican is racist. Some insist
the Pope be trans. They want her to be trans so she can have the first Vatican
abortion. People shout ‘Murder in the cathedral’ from the square at St. Peter’s.

My God, it’s almost time to eat. The table is set for eight. There are thirteen. 
We have a half-cooked turkey, three slabs of BBQ ribs, eight hot dogs, two slices
of bread, half a dozen pickles, a few beers, and a day-old pineapple pizza. Why 
are we so ill prepared? Someone drove off Clarence. Yes, Clarence: remember?
He was going to bring dessert, wasn’t he? Cranberry sauce, sweet potato pie? 
Why doesn’t he come?  Marian’s mother’s not here, thank God.