So, there I was sandwiched amongst the ravenous, bloated masses as they clamored with their turkey-starved hands like heinous beasts to grab hold of the last can of cranberry sauce and creamed corn, and I said to them, above crying babies with dirty faces and bewildered grannies visiting from out of town, “Good gonzo! This is a day of thanks, not war!” The ogres of hunger, mouths watering like wolves ‘round a dead buffalo, paid me no mind, their thoughts frozen with ideas about $98 HDTVs at WalMart come Friday. I felt like I was floating in a gravy boat of despair, as the lot of them prepared for the gorging, the feasting, the football, the giant Snoopy suspended over New York City (of which they do not realize is one giant commercial for Macy’s Department store). It all sounds like some sort of mescaline-induced hyperbole from a Hunter Thompson book, but it’s all true! All true, I tell ya! My friends had warned me, “Two days – TWO!!! – before Thanksgiving. Are you mad, woman? You’ll never make it out alive!” It was fearsome, indeed, but I did escape the slobs of gluttony with a bag of potatoes, a frozen cherry pie, and a tub of vanilla ice cream. I did not like the experience though. Nope, I did not, but I am thankful I survived it, and when I sit down to eat on Thursday, that is what I’ll give thanks for — surviving checkout lane ate (I mean eight) on an early Tuesday morn’.