I traveled a good 200 miles to be with my family, whom I rarely get to see due to the distance. It was supposed to be our day, you know? A happy day. When I got there, my father was in tears. I asked him what was wrong but before he could say anything, I hear the toilet flush from the other room. Within moments Donald Trump comes waltzing into the kitchen, a square of toilet paper dragging on his left shoe. He pats my dad on the back real hard as if my dad had something stuck in his throat and says, "Okay, okay. Where's the grindage, Mike?" My father's name is Carl. My dad just kept crying. My mother tried to prepare the meal, making sure the turkey was cooked just right, steaming the carrots or whatever you do to carrots, stirring the instant mashed potatoes. But she's just so nervous the whole time because across the room, ten feet away, Donald Trump is sitting at the kitchen table, hands folded, just staring at her, silently, with vacant eyes. He watched her like a hawk for at least half an hour and he never once blinked. We went into the dining room and all sat at the table and my mother started to say grace when Trump let out this yuge yawn and just reached across the table and grabbed the entire turkey with one hand. What happened next still haunts me to this day. He took the turkey - the whole goddamned turkey - and held it over his head. He bent his head back and his mouth opened inhumanly wide. I have never seen anything like it in my life and I never want to again. He dropped the turkey into the gaping hole that was once a mouth and swallowed it whole. My mother burst into tears. He stood up, let out a disgusting fart and said with an even worse belch, "Not good. Not good at all." Then he just walks into the kitchen and demolishes everything. Just starts thrashing everywhere, cackling all the while. He's knocking down bowls and plates, ripping out cabinet doors, he pulls the refrigerator down on top of our -blam!-ing cat. He stomped on all the kitchen floor tiles until they were in pieces, and my father had just laid those tiles in October. He karate chopped the table in half. He broke one chair on another chair's back the way wrestlers do and continued doing this until all the chairs were gone; he used his own foot, toilet paper still hanging, to break the last one. After that he rubbed his stomach, smiling, and gazed upon the mess he'd just made with pride, as though he'd just created some beautiful masterpiece. He shot a glance at us - we're just huddled together in the dining room, speechless and in tears - and after what felt like hours of silence he says, "Happy holidays," and leaps through the window, shattering it - the only thing in the kitchen he'd had yet to destroy.