Reports have emerged from the Webster family’s annual Thanksgiving dinner that the table is just two awkward conversations with each other away from finally getting to dig into the cheesy potatoes.
“It’s great to see you too, school’s going great, no, I don’t still play soccer,” said 12-year-old Gabriella Webster, making repeated longing glances toward the sweet, sweet spuds on the table in front of her.
“Wow, when did you get so tall?” asked Aunt Beryl Webster, while her niece zeroed in on the creamy tuber delicacies splayed in front of her. “You were just this tall when I last saw you!” she added, reaching her hand out to touch her niece’s shoulder, keeping the young Webster frozen in place and in “hangry” anticipation.
Uncle Chester Webster was reportedly also itching to plunge his serving spoon into the “rich, buttery bastards” laid out on the table, but was denied access to the carbo-loaded pan of “good shit,” now only a few more half-hearted exchanges away from getting completely demolished.
At press time, the family members were just sixteen stories about Grandma Edith’s disc surgery away from stuffing their faces with pecan pie.