In case you’re dreading the family discussion at the Thanksgiving dinner table

Guest column at the Washington Free Beacon on this day one year ago:

How to Talk to Your Pansy Marxist Nephew at Thanksgiving

The reason I’m writing this is because my brother’s dumb kid likes to get chatty with me. I’ve never seen anyone bring so many printouts to the dinner table. His “talking points,” he says. Reminds me of my last divorce, all those friggin’ printouts. This kid, my nephew, will never admit to being a communist, it’s always this “moderate independent” crap. But his Facebook feed is full of Bernie Sandinista, if you know what I mean, and he recently tweeted some gibberish about riding the bus in Czechoslovakia and identifying as a “human being” instead of what he is, an American. He’s been a “student” at some Ivy League circlejerk for the better part of a decade. I think he’s 29, who the hell even cares? If he’s the future, this country’s digging its own grave and I’m glad I won’t be there when it finally kicks the bucket.

No, you listen. You listen, Brayden. When’s the last time you got a blister on those hands? Don’t mention the time you tried eating the vegan hotdog at the WNBA game you made me take you to out of “fairness.” You didn’t even watch the game. You just tweeted about sexism on your iPad. You know, that little computer screen made by Apple, which last I checked was a corporation, Mr. Occupy. Don’t deny it, I was watching you. You only looked up when Taylor Swift came over the PA system. How do you think that made Brittney Griner feel? Remind me: What’s the name of the union for people who Twitter all day from an air conditioned office? Because I don’t think “amateur food photographer” counts as a real job.” I plan to say this to the little pansy in a firm but slightly mocking tone as I pour another bourbon while eating processed turkey and holding a lit cigarette.

Read the whole thing here.

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