What’s the Best Part About Your Entire Family Dying From COVID-19?

The serene Thanksgiving you’ll have this year!

Robert Criss
Dishonourable Unmentionables
3 min readMay 19, 2020

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Ahhhh, I can see it now.

11:00 AM Thanksgiving Day: You wake from a dream where you were a turkey pardoned by the President (Obama). While writing it down in your dream journal, you remember another dream where a respiratory virus spread across the world killing hundreds of thousands, including your annoying relatives who visit every Thanksgiving. Wait a second. You pinch yourself but you’re already awake. A dream come true.

You set down the dream journal next to your nightmare journal, which is gathering dust.

11:01 AM — 4:29 PM: You don’t move at all. No one’s around to tell you to put the turkey in the oven, or ask when you’ll meet a nice girl, because they’re locked down in place or — better yet — dead from COVID-19. They don’t even bother you in a supernatural, beyond-the-grave fashion and the only downside is that your face hurts from smiling.

4:30 PM: You roll out of bed in a velvet robe and slippers and make your way down a newly installed spiral staircase. You call out to see who else is awake. No answer. You’re alone. “How terribly sad,” you think, “that this didn’t happen sooner!”

5:30 PM: With neither foul smells nor loud arguments coming from the kitchen, you’re greeted only by the sounds of smooth jazz coming from the family-room-turned-gentleman’s-smoking room. Miles, baby. The Pilgrims ain’t had shit on this.

6:40 PM: The doorbell rings, triggering a PTSD flashback of extended family disturbing your inner peace and filling your freezer with diabetic-friendly ice cream. You laugh, remembering. That must be the delivery boy. If not, I won’t answer.

6:45 PM: The delivery boy unpacks your banquet onto the dining table and you slip him a fiver for his hard work. You look fondly upon the empty chairs gathered around the bountiful feast for one. Might need those for firewood later. Or maybe a sex fort.

The delivery boy says, “Happy Thanksgiving, mister,” as you kick him to the curb and, for the first time in your life, agree with the sentiment.

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Robert Criss
Dishonourable Unmentionables

humor writer feat. in Slackjaw, Points in Case, Weekly Humorist, 251, Little Old Lady Comedy, Robot Butt, Flexx Mag. robertcriss.net