On a Wednesday night in November of 2011 I was in the basement of my friend Andrew’s parents’ house. This was no ordinary autumn evening—it was Thanksgiving Eve—and my first such Thanksgiving Eve after turning 21.

As I’m sure it is in your town, Thanksgiving Eve is a bit of a tradition where I come from. The newly minted adults gather at the local watering hole (in my case, directly across the street from the high school) and engage in the ultimately futile gesture of delaying the big 30 for as long as possible.

To prepare for this orgiastic charade of inebriated awkwardness, Andrew, myself, and our high school friend group were pregaming with poorly mixed cocktails and the viral videos of a more innocent time.

I had just turned 21 the previous summer and this was one of the first nights of partying I’d have with my high school friends. I anticipated a thrilling night of shots, dancing, more shots, laughing, more shots, and ill-advised hookups with that one girl we went to high school with.

I wasn’t remotely prepared for what came next. 


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It’s the joke that changed history. On April 29, 2011 Donald Trump was an obnoxious clown who enjoyed the attention he got from toying with a run at the Presidency. On May 1, 2011, Donald Trump was an obnoxious clown bent on revenge against Obama, Meyers, and the political class that laughed him out of D.C. He would stop at nothing—no lie was too big enough, no amount of treason was off-limits. In fifty years someone will make another Back to the Future sequel where Doc Brown’s kids go back in time to stop Seth Meyers from telling that joke.


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There is a city in the northeastern United States of America. It can be found between a long island and the mainland, where a broad, choppy bay is bisected to form two distinct rivers. Within that bay is an island from which rises a statue. The statue is of a woman. She is tall, her body weathered, and her right arm proudly holds a flaming torch into the sky. 

The statue stands on a granite pedestal on which is a plaque that reads the following. 

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" 


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​​​​​​​​​​​John Forelli