If you ever wondered just how far-leftists celebrate Thanksgiving, here’s the answer, from Salon.com: first they tell you that Thanksgiving is a “celebration of gluttony, sports, nationalism, militarism and waste,” and then they regale you with horrible tales of how they had promiscuous sex with some guy they met at a family barbecue who happened to be Republican.
Seriously.
Over at Salon.com, columnist Penelope Felixson has marked Turkey Day not by thanking God for all the wonderful things in her life, but by explaining, “I f*cked a Republican on Thanksgiving.” Felixson describes meeting her husband, a pathetic Democrat who couldn’t satisfy her in bed thanks to her hatred for George W. Bush. WARNING: This stuff isn’t for the squeamish:
D., my future husband, worked hard to make me come in those early months, but often failed. He held me and I wrapped myself around him, feeling his disappointment, his self-reproach, his yawning sense of inadequacy. I promised again and again it wasn’t him or us but me. And in fact it wasn’t really me, per se. There were all sorts of proper nouns conspiring against him. There was Lexapro. Yasmin. And also, there was Dubya.
With sane and rational bona fides like this, it’s no wonder poor Penelope’s sex life was a shambles. But it was really a shambles because she had a desperate, dark desire to bed a Republican as a stand-in for W, that mastodon of masculinity:
I’d see G.W. Bush on the campaign trail, smiling his witless smile, spouting unfiltered hollowness in his affected twang, looking halfway between a goon who wanted to see your t*ts outside a football game and the inquisitor who’d light the pyre at your auto da fe, and I knew… or, I knew without knowing. There was a dim, muted part of my brain that wanted to fuck him, that was tired of the skinny academics I took to bed. My fantasy was to f*ck a Republican.
She fulfilled that desire on Thanksgiving, after attending a stereotypical leftist-fiction Thanksgiving in which uncles dropped random “n-bombs before we even reached the table” and coworkers made off-color jokes about Monica Lewinsky (The horror! The horror!). She met a young Republican with a father in finance (of course) and a sports coat and a fiancé.
Her dreams were about to come true:
As pie was passed around the table, he said something with just the right proportions of flirtation and snark: “You’re kind of cute for a hippie.” He put half a slice of pie in his mouth in a single bite, chewed, almost winked. “We should exchange email addresses or something.”
“I have a better idea,” I told him. “Why don’t you take me back to your hotel.”
He took her back to his massive hotel – the whole pathetic story reads like a rejected excerpt from Fifty Shades of Grey – and proceeded to sex her up roughly (of course) and publicly (of course) before ejaculating prematurely (of course):
The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than 15 seconds. He mumbled something I couldn’t make out and scurried to the bathroom. The demon that was exorcised that night turned out to be an insubstantial one, because he never returned… How did I think that f*cking one person could expel all my feelings of disgust and rage and impotence, my feelings of helplessness living in a crazy f*cking country that elected a man (twice) to its highest office, basically because it liked the way he looked in a cowboy hat?
So our heroine ended up in a patriarchal relationship with her Democrat, watching a “genuinely decent (and quite hot) man celebrating his ascension to the White House.” Presumably, she also wants to screw Barack Obama.
Sadly, this mental incompetent also reproduced, and will now bring her bizarre and crude values to the next generation. But ironically, she did learn her lesson: in her husband and child, she found “a warmth that burns far hotter than any dark desire for something I hated. And I am thankful.”
So, in the end, she ended up a sexual conservative. Reality, it turns out, always wins.
Happy Thanksgiving, from Salon.com.