Kourtney Kardashian was alternating between chugging from an imaginary bottle and flapping her wings frantically as her teammates shouted wrong answers. Then the bell went off.
“Kourtney, what was it?” her confused charades partners asked.
“You guys are so dumb!” Kourtney cried. “It was TEQUILA MOCKINGBIRD. Only like the most famous book ever.”
Yeezus fucking Christ, Kanye thought. Normally, it was at this point in the Kardashian family gatherings that he excused himself to his studio. But not tonight. Eyes on the prize, Kanye. Tonight, he would change Thanksgiving forever.
Kanye didn’t know when he decided that he wanted to reinvent a major American holiday. Part of him believed that he’d wanted to all his life. But it was only during his latest balancing diamond massage that he’d decided that this year would be the year.
But which holiday? Christmas was the obvious choice, but he had already done the Jesus thing; Kwanza was too obscure—the only people he knew who still celebrated it were Mase and Rick Rubin. Chanukah was appropriately grandiose with its eight nights, but the early drafts of his Damien Hirst collaboration menorahs had an opulence that was a little too "Watch the Throne." But Thanksgiving? Everyone celebrated Thanksgiving. It was the most American holiday of all the American holidays. And what did every American family eat on Thanksgiving? The same old ugly, beige, completely uninspiring turkey. But not his new family. This year, the West-Kardashians would dine on the first-ever bespoke turkeys. The game that would change the game.
In January, he’d commissioned Frank Gehry to design a deconstructivist masterpiece of a turkey coop in the foothills behind his Georgia mansion. He’d collaborated with La Prairie on the first-ever turkey cosmetic line. He’d had their breakfast flown in from The French Laundry, their lunch from elBulli. Every morning, they went jogging with Lennox Lewis’s former trainer, and at night they did yoga with Bikram Choudhury. By November, his turkeys were swag-to-table.
But you can’t eat a turkey if it’s still alive. Kanye needed to slaughter the birds, and he needed to slaughter them himself. As he approached the coop, his iridium blade in hand, he began to tremble with anxiety. The only thing he’d ever killed before was a verse—he would need someone to talk him through, someone with a darker past.
Jay Z has imposed a strict three phone call per week limit on Kanye as of late, and he had already used up his allotment getting Kylie Jenner and her friends onto the set of Beyonce’s recent Pepsi shoot (and had there even been a “thank you”? Of course not). But this was urgent and important. Big brother would understand.
The phone went straight to voicemail, and seconds later, Kanye received a text:
“Dinner w/ Barack and kids. Put u on speaker phone? Biden big fan of College Dropout.”
Damnit, Kanye thought. This was clearly not a conversation he could ask Jay to have in front of the president. If only Jay had agreed to have Kanye teach him Swaghili. Swaghili collab w/ Rosetta Stone, Kanye made a mental note.
Kanye scrolled through his phone.
50 Cent picked up after a few rings. “Yeezy season approaching! Listen, I have to talk to you about…”
“50, don’t have time to talk—I need you to tell me how to kill”
“Kill? Man I’ve never killed shit!” 50 chuckled. “50 Cent is basically a creation of a subsidary of Warner Brothers.”
There was a pause on the line.
“But you know what, man, it sounds like you really need some advice. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but the person you need to talk to is that little Kiwi sensation.”
“Lorde?!” Kanye was stunned.
“Straight up. My nutritionist Hokaka is from Auckland, and he told me she’s a cold blooded killer. Like on some Uma Thurman shit. I’ll BBM you her contact info.”
Kanye’s fingers trembled as he touched “call.”
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Kanye said, a little too cheerfully.
“Thanksgiving? You mean the annual celebration of colonial genocide? Thanks, I guess,” Lorde said, sounding bored.
“Are you busy?” Kanye asked sheepishly.
“I don’t even know how to answer a question like that.”
“I need to know how to kill and 50 Cent told me you knew how,” Kanye blurted.
“Oh. I assume we’re talking paparazzi.” There was a pause on the line. “You just have to pretend they’re someone you hate. Hasn’t your wife slept with, like, an entire basketball team? Just pretend they’re one of them.”
Kanye looked into the den, where one of his turkeys was reclining in an Eames chair, sitting serenely like a little prince as GOOD Music’s intern, Seth, worked on its cuticles. These turkeys, these gorgeous camo-print turkeys with their Raf Simmons leggings and tiny Air Yeezys— turkeys that were about to change the fucking game forever— bore no resemblance to the Cro-Magnon emptiness of Kris Humphries or the shit-eating buffoonery of Ray J. And they didn’t need to. Because they didn’t need to be killed and served that night. Kanye realized there was nothing he had to prove to the world, that he had no need for another ahead-of-its time project that would be misunderstood by the masses and ridiculed by pasty late-night hosts. How you gonna be mad on vacation? He had everything he needed only an acre away—his beautiful wife and perfect little girl, waiting for him to celebrate the holiday.