Meet the Jones. It’s Thanksgiving and they’ve settled down at their parents’ home to celebrate another year filled with familial blessings. Around every corner, the aroma of turkey and homemade apple pie drifts almost palpably in cartoon-esque puffs.

In the kitchen, Stacy is whipping up her “world famous” stuffing. She seems to have manifested her aggression into the task of stirring the mix together. “Bailey!” she shouts to her daughter, who is tugging on her blue jeans, “Go bother your father or I swear to God. . . ”

The little girl stomps away, pigtails swinging in angst. If she could activate laser vision through the appliqued eyes of her Minnie Mouse sweater, there would be scour marks in the hardwood floor. In the Black Friday ads, Bailey saw the latest Bratz figure for sale, and she wants it. Badly.

Dan, Bailey’s father, is hunched over the ads, which have now consumed the dining room table. Dan’s favorite Thanksgiving pastime is sitting down and sharing the night with some of his good ole boys: Walmart, Best Buy, Target and Menards.

Terrance, Dan’s brother, has been camping out at Best Buy since last Saturday. “How’s the weather treatin’ ya?” Dan asked when he called Terry earlier.

“Pretty f-ing cold,” Terry shouted back, “But I’d rather be here drinking a Bud Light, freezing my arse off in a tent than listening to Stacy and Deb shout at everyone.”

Dan glances at the clock ticking above his mother’s antique cabinet. 6:50 p.m. In just over an hour, the sales will be starting at Walmart and Target. Kmart opened its doors to the public over twelve hours ago. If Stacy lets him, he’s hoping to duck out by 9:00 p.m to make sure he hooks a spot for that $250, 50-inch LED flat screen TV.

“Dan!” Stacy yells from the kitchen, “Can you please talk to your daughter? Tell her that she has to wait for Santa to get the new Snotz doll?”

“Bratz!” Bailey bites back in a shrill voice, “And please Mom, I’ve known Santa isn’t real since kindergarten.”

“Now, now, Bailey,” Grandma Alice says back, “Whoever told you that?”

“This is the age of the Internet, Grandma,” Bailey retorts, hands on her hips, “I saw it on Reddit.”

“Bailey,” Alice says, “Why don’t you go wake your Grandpa up for dinner?”

“Harold!”

Grandpa Harold passed out long ago while watching football on the La-Z-Boy recliner. Bailey runs into the living room at full throttle and leaps onto his stomach.

“Ohhhhh,” he groans, sitting up straight, “Alright, Bailey, I’m up. I’m up.”

“Time to eat, Grandpa,” Bailey says before planting a sloppy wet kiss on his face.

“Good timing,” Harold grumbles, “I’m going to need more of that tryptophan stuff.”

“Dan!” Stacy commands, “Clear those ads off the table so we can eat.”

Dan collects the papers into a pile and tosses them onto a side table. Hands in pockets, he walks into the kitchen with his father. Stacy is pushing the last of the stuffing in between the turkey’s legs.

“Stuffing food into more food,” Grandpa Harold says with a happy sigh, patting his stomach, “Nothing more American than that.”