Say Gracias Before You Glut

Last Thursday large numbers (and vast members) of the U.S.A.'s residents indulged in synchronized stuffing. To kick off the nation's official four-day pig-out known as the Thanksgiving weekend, George W. Bush, celebrated by many for talking turkey, but really better versed in the gab of gobbledygook, honored the not so traditional tradition invented by the dead president Harry Truman: he pardoned a turkey. The turkey was called Flyer. The White House website claims the lucky buzzard’s name was chosen via online voting, but, frankly, it reeks too much of the mind of incurious George.

So then: All across this expansive nation people gathered around less lucky fowls and partook of their oversize cadavers, roasted to a golden crisp and rammed with a mish-mash of materials intended to lend taste to the otherwise bland boidy. No doubt, per habit, many heaped upon their plates the usual army of accoutrements: green bean casserole, candied yams, mashed potatoes and more—much more. And lest you think that that smorgasbord of gastrointestinal inhibitors could stop the fun, don’t forget the pumpkin pie! But cardinal sin No. 2 aside, the holiday is generally the good kind; the kind that doesn’t involve self-mutilation, proselytizing, guilt-inducements or forced gift-giving. Just, as the title suggests, the offer of thanks. And the residents of this great nation—but then, what nation isn’t great?—have much to give thanks for. I certainly do. Here's a culling from my merci list:

— Only two more years to go before the world’s most incompetent leader is given the g'bye mat. Did I say Bush? Did I need to?

— Donald “freedom is untidy” Rumsfeld was pink-slipped—a lot later than he, or we, deserved; but at least it happened. Like his blithering bossman, his legacy will not die soon enough.

— I wasn't one of the 200 people who died in the Baghdad bombing on Thanksgiving day.

— I wasn't one of the nearly 3,000 American soldiers killed in Iraq since the American invasion.

— I wasn't one of the approximately 50,000 Iraqis killed since that same invasion commenced. (That number's according to Iraq Body Count; the British journal Lancet estimates 100,000.)

— I'm not black and poor and living in Darfur (but no thanks to the leaders of the Western world who are so quick to quell fires if there is profit to be made—or lost).

— I'm not black and poor and living in New Orleans, many of whom are still suffering the aftermath of their government's inexcusable apathy and incompetence.

But killjoys that daily headlines are, I remind myself that there is something bigger than our microcosm of self-importance. Humanity may head further down the spiral, global warming may cause the tides to turn turbulent, a nut with a nuke might flip the safety catch; that the answer is naught may be hard to digest. But life will go on. Even if not ours—or the turkeys'. Buon appetito.