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Thanksgiving Fight For The Turkey Leg

Everyone wants to be king.

It’s Thanksgiving, and 13 bodies are crammed around the table meant for 8, stuffing its circumference tighter than whatever the hell’s crammed into that turkey.

Bellies bulge, chairs groan, and arms cross as the golden-brown turkey—steam still pouring off its breast—lands smack dab in the middle of the table, like a fishing lure to a lake full of bass.

And that’s when the standoff begins.

The room goes quiet, but the tension couldn’t be louder. Everyone knows the rule: whoever gets the drumstick is king. It’s not written down anywhere, but it’s as old as Grandma and twice as sacred. And over the next five minutes, a new king will be crowned.

Right after grace, your Lannister-like uncle makes his move. He’s big, hairy, and so shameless it’s almost admirable. His knuckles, coated in a matted layer of cranberry sauce and fur, creep across the table like a midnight robber.

Then…

SMACK.

Grandma’s hand comes down with the force of Thor’s hammer, stopping him cold. “We need to feed the kids first,” she declares. Her voice is calm, but the look in her eyes says she’s ready to take on anyone who disagrees.

From somewhere down the table, your uncle mutters, “…fuckin’ kids.” You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Grandma carves up the turkey for the pint-sized crowd, five contenders who never stood a chance. They’re too young, too distracted by their tablets, too oblivious to what the drumstick means. If they were handed the leg, it would be a gift they wouldn’t understand, like someone giving you a filet mignon when all you wanted was a box of chicken nuggets.

Once the kids are out of the running, the real battle begins.

Seven adults sit stiffly, their eyes darting between the drumstick and each other. Your uncle is already out, his earlier defeat an eternal stain on his honor. His failure hangs over the table like gravy waiting to spill, and no one’s about to clean it up.

Then, chaos erupts.

Three hands shoot out at once, colliding mid-air with a sound that’s half clap and half crunch. Your aunt’s finger bends sideways, now resembling a lightning bolt. She gasps, clutches her hand, and retreats, muttering something about needing ice. No one offers to help.

Four contenders remain.

At this point, politeness creeps in like a passive-aggressive fog. Everyone insists someone else should take the leg. “Oh, you go ahead,” says one, their eyes twitching. “No, I couldn’t,” says another, even as their fork hovers dangerously close to the drumstick. The tension builds as fake smiles crack and knuckles twitch.

And then, the unthinkable happens.

Grandma takes the drumstick.

Her move is so fast, so clean, it leaves the rest of us blinking. Forks freeze mid-air, and silence falls over the room as the full weight of what just happened sinks in.

Finally, she speaks, her voice calm and regal as she surveys the carnage.

“The drumstick’s never about the king,” she says, taking a victorious bite. “It’s always about the queen.”

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

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51 thoughts on “Thanksgiving Fight For The Turkey Leg”

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