Well, I caught it. I actually thought I was immune this year, too. I put myself in harm’s way the past couple of years by electing to go stateside, but this year I was all “nah, I’ll stay in the land of the ‘roided out spiders instead.” Then I went back to spooning with my Guinness and choreographing a commemorative jig, because that’s what we do here y’all. The rumors are true.

Screen Shot 2015-11-23 at 11.08.18 a.m.

And, yet, I still managed to catch Thanksgiving Fever this year. I have all the normal symptoms, so there’s no mistaking it. I’ve been sweating for stuffing. My head actually aches for goddamn gravy. In my state, I’ve become convinced that turkey is of appropriate moistness. And it’s drier than a dead dingo’s donger, to put it lightly. I’m just saying what you’re all thinking, so resist the urge to be offended.

I sense I’m not the only one waking up at all hours of the night with a gnawing hunger due to an ongoing montage of sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, mini marshmallows and pecan pie. If my stomach were the only one stretching itself for the epic gorge-fest we’ve branded as a holiday, then I’d be reticent to even bring this up.

I looked into it, though, and I’m not alone. Thanksgiving Fever affects 1 in every 3 Americans at home and abroad. It’s a serious epidemic.

The good news, though, is I think I’ve found the cure. Bear with me now. This is a revolutionary idea, and it’s not exactly kosher by FDA standards.

Just suffer through four excruciating days (or 5 if you’re celebrating Friday like we are) and increase your body weight by a cool 20% in one sitting.

It’s the only cure.

Lucille Bluth is a poet


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