5:45 p.m.: Things at Camp Sanders are pretty tense right now. My entire extended family has arrived an hour early, and my mother is starting to panic because she hasn’t finished cooking yet.

5:47: My father, trying to diffuse the situation, invites everyone into the living room for cocktails and other light refreshments. Sensing an opportunity to try out some of my newest jokes, I make my way to the front of the room and clear my throat. “Hey folks, I just got back from the airport, and boy are my genitals sore! Seriously, what’s up with all these Transportation Security Administration agents recently? Why are they touching — ?”

5:48: Well, so much for that. I guess nobody appreciates humor anymore.

6:00: I’m finally seated at the table, next to one of my favorite cousins and some old person I’ve never seen before. My family is very religious, so I offer to lead the pre-meal prayer. “What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us? Just a stranger on the bus, trying to make his way home? Amen.”

6:05: Each adult is required by law (and Sanders family tradition) to bring one food item to Thanksgiving dinner. Last year, I brought an ancient Native American dish called Heineken. That one was a big hit with my father, who had several helpings. Everybody else seemed to like it, too. This year, I’ve decided to bring Whipped Lightning, America’s first-ever alcoholic whipped cream (I’m not making this up). Hell to the yeah!

6:08: Now that my plate is filled with a delectable assortment of food from around the table, I’m ready to dig in. Let’s do this.

6:10: I’ve learned that the old person sitting next to me is actually my godfather. His name is William, and he seems pretty nice. He doesn’t get why I’m doing my famous Marlon Brando impression, though. “Looks like someone’s getting a horse head for Christmas,” I say. He doesn’t get that one, either.

6:20: Cranberry sauce mixed with mashed potatoes — don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, folks.

6:31: I have just stuffed huge gobs of corn (or as the Native Americans call it, Heineken) into a small roll. Now I’m eating it like a sandwich. I am truly the master of this holiday. Don’t mess with me.

6:50: Several of my relatives have started nagging me about school.

“How are your grades this semester, Mike?” asks one of my uncles.

“Whipped Lightning, anyone?” I respond.

7:00: The table is a lot emptier now. Most people have stopped eating — they’ve given up, in other words. But I haven’t. I’m in this for the long haul, or until my mother hauls me away.

7:05: Dessert this year consists of chocolate pie and red velvet cake. I’m in hog heaven. Also, I’m probably going to get diabetes. Whatever.

7:30: Well, my relatives have left and my parents are both sprawled on the couch, nursing their food comas. I think I’ll go to my room and finish my Whipped Lightning. This Thanksgiving sucked.

Mike Sanders is a senior history major. He can be reached at sanders at umdbk dot com.