Jeff’s Thanksgiving Dinner

It was a hot, humid night in the middle of July. The kind of night where even the bugs stop moving. Humidity so oppressive that the last thing you ever wanted was to get your ass stuck to some vinyl bench in a Ruby Tuesday’s. On a night like tonight, there’s only one thing you need: Jeff’s thanksgiving dinner.
Let me tell you how we found Jeffs. After downing two bottles of economy wine, we were pursing google maps to find some late night food. The debate was as commonplace and American as can be: Taco Bell or Burger King. But what do we see? Amid the Micky Ds and Jimmy Js of fifth avenue? A true American. Jeff.
Make no mistake, I love my cranberry sauce in the shape of a can. There’s something that feeds your soul when you’re eating stuffing that cooked inside a dead birds asshole. This is the food that drives the dream. So we piled our little family into the car, and drove in rapt anticipation to Westwood avenue. It was a whole 0.6 miles away. But what happens when we exit our midsize crossover? Was it the gravy laden path to Jesus’s grace we had hoped for? No. It was a condominium. A god forsaken condominium with no mashed potatoes, corn bread, or self respect. There was no thanksgiving. There was no Jeff. Just a pissed off middle aged woman who told us to get off her lawn.
So this is for you Jeff. This revelation that there is no American dream. There is no thanksgiving in July. And there is no hope.
Thanks Jeff. You’ve undone all that is good in America.