“Welcome back home, honey! How was your flight?” said Fred Garvey, smiling nervously at his daughter across the dinner table.

“I fucking hate Trump,” said Brittany. “I can’t believe you voted for him!”

“Your mother and I didn’t vote, dear.”

“Not voting is a vote for Trump! You helped him win, you festering pile of dog shit! You and mom are the semen in Hitler’s dick!”

“We live in Oregon, Brittany. It’s not a battleground state. Are you ready for another crescent roll, or should we place it back in the fuhrer’s urethra to keep it warm?”

After the shittiest Thanksgiving dinner since George W. Bush was elected, researchers have found one person who actually had an enjoyable holiday. Renny Roberts, who hasn’t spoken to any of his family members in 17 years, had a Thanksgiving he described as “positively delightful.”

“I woke up late, sat around in my underoos getting high and drinking beer, and then I played old Nintendo games until I fell asleep on the couch with the dog,” said Roberts. “I ordered eight chalupas for lunch! Eight! The phrase ‘eight motherfucking chalupas’ was the only conversation required of me the entire day. Thanksgiving is lit!”

To all other American households, Thanksgiving dinner was a political shartfest where progressive family members threatened to dump the turkey in the toilet if their conservative relatives didn’t admit to being racist, while conservatives kidnapped bourbon from the liquor cabinet and took it to a fast food restaurant down the street to eat by themselves.

The brave idiots from both sides who chose to suffer through what was left of Thanksgiving dinner were treated to a series of endless “preach to the choir” lectures that were as self-centered as they were tedious.

“I’m doing a personal blackout from all media, even NPR,” said Gail Tompkins, a slight fragrance of cat poop in her breath. “Especially NPR, those Trump loving fucks! I only read George Orwell books now, and only by candlelight. Trump will take control of our country and its electricity on January 20, so I need to make sure I can do without. I’m halfway through Animal Farm and I’m finding it a little too conservative for my palate. It doesn’t feed my irrational paranoia like I was hoping it would. I want something that unhinges me so much that I randomly blurt out conspiracy theories during Thanksgiving dinner. I want to make this day of togetherness and thankfulness truly unbearable for everyone.”

Things also heated up for Roberts around 2pm, when he took a short break from doing absolutely nothing to vigorously masturbate while screaming catch phrases from the Powderpuff Girls television program. For once, his neighbors didn’t complain because they were all out of town for the holiday.

“I’ve never really been successful, so it doesn’t matter to me if the world falls apart,” said Roberts, using the zipper of his tattered jean shorts to hold a lit roman candle, aiming the colorful bursts at passersby on the sidewalk below his window. “I make my own change! Later today I’m gonna crank up the heat to 90 degrees and write a naked letter to President Obama!”

The letter, a two sentence masterpiece declaring Roberts’ penis as a sovereign nation, is not coherent.

Back at the Garvey residence, hours of intense arguing have caused Fred to take the bait and sink the Thanksgiving conversation even lower.

“I just want something to change! You and all your friends are ideological assknobs!” shouted Fred, mistaking random insults for debate points. “With this cranberry sauce as my witness, we will take back our jobs and destroy NAFTA forever!”

“Don’t you dare bless that fucking cranberry sauce with NAFTA, dad! You know that’s my favorite! I will invite every pinko friend I have to dinner next year you piece of shit!”

“Anyone who eats this cranberry sauce supports Donald Trump! Retroactively! You voted for Trump! You voted for Trump with your mouth!”

The only time a Thanksgiving dinner was shittier was in 1973 when the Roe vs. Wade decision was announced and your grandmother stabbed your uncle in the neck with a fork. While there was milder shittyness in 2002 over whether Rachel’s fictitious baby in the TV show “Friends” was fugly or not, Thanksgivings have been pleasantly dull until this year.

Back at the Roberts household, everything is pure bliss. Sitting in a bubble bath with a piping hot meat lovers pizza resting nearby on the closed lid of the toilet, Roberts is happier than he’s ever been.

“Many people have said that the world would be a great place if not for all the people in it,” said Roberts, pausing a particularly raunchy adult film he was streaming on his phone. “I put that theory to the test, and now my life is perfect. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m taking a bubble bath with my dog while eating a meat lovers pizza off my toilet. So I’ll be needing some privacy.”