Going home for the holidays? Sure, you love your family (!), but sometimes the stress of holiday get-togethers can have you fumbling for the keys to the gun case. Here's a tip on avoiding massacre/suicide and nipping family drama in the bud.

Personally, family gatherings at the Dankerously household had always gone pretty smoothly. That is, until my brother Maurice went gay and I denounced the Christian God and turned to the light of Nichiren Shoshu. Ever since, there have been moments in our parents' happy house that seem a bit... strained. Especially around the dinner table -­ every year the old man insists that I say grace even though he knows I'd rather shove the friggin' turkey neck up my ass. And after five years of Maurice living in a tiny WeHo (west Hollywood) apartment with a mustachioed man named Frank, Pops continues to ask if he's got any new girlfriends.

I used to just sneak out into their drafty east Texas garage and puff tuff. Still do, as a matter of fact, but I found this solution only partially helpful. Maybe if we weren't slightly more dysfunctional than Christina Ricci's family in The Ice Storm it would have worked. But I eventually realized drastic circumstances called for drastic measures. I decided to fuck up my family.

Once I had made up my mind to warp my unsuspecting family's brains (Maurice already smoked, so that was no problem), the rest was brutally simple. Having grown herb for the previous couple of years in Humboldt County, I had a quite impressive stash of bud trim, which is the lifeblood for any pot butter recipe (which in turn is the key to any kine-related cooking). All I had to do was bring a couple of items over and get a little more involved in the turkey day tasks.

Before I got on the plane to Austin, I had baked up some blueberry corn bread and coffee cake, using the recipes on box sides and just substituting a healthy amount of the pot butter wherever the recipe called for shortening, oil, or butter. I had concentrated on bringing breakfasty items, since we get up pretty early for coffee, and it takes a while for the THC to run through one's system, especially as compared to smoking, which has almost instantaneous results. This way, Pops would be getting pretty blistered by the first game's halftime.

All went according to my evil plan. There weren't many takers for the corn bread, but the coffeecake was thoroughly scarfed. I made sure to jam as much of it down Pa's craw as he could handle, since the old man is often the source of trauma.

Sure enough, by halftime of the Bears-Lions game, Pops was stoned to the bejeezus. His usual beer remained almost untouched, his typical play-by-play interjections ("Goddamn butterfingers!" "Jeezus CHRIST, how much is this idiot getting paid?!") and that fuckin' BOOMING clap possessed of all rough, callused-hand veterans were nearly silenced. He seemed to be really enjoying the game, though, in a lobotomized kind of way.

Meanwhile, Ma couldn't believe I actually wanted to get involved in the kitchen for once. She almost didn't know how to handle it, so I concentrated on one thing -­ the stuffing. I followed her classic recipe, again substituting at the appropriate intervals. Slipping in the butter was easy, thanks to a well-timed phone call from my Aunt Ruth in Anaheim. The main trouble was just trying to make sure the mixture stayed at simmer, not Ma's usual boil. She eventually kicked me out of the kitchen for not following her instructions, but the damage had been done. I had had to get up extra early to do it, but it was worth it.

All I can say is, by the time the turkey was served, everyone was lit in that special way that only ingesting THC can accomplish (everyone except Ma, or it would have never got done). The annual tedious interrogations were replaced by dopey comments, bad jokes, and bliss. Now isn't that what the holidays are supposed to be about?

See also: How to Make Pot Butter or Oil

Johnny Dankerously has probably swallowed more LSD than Syd Barrett and David Carradine combined. Unlike those pussies, though, he hasn't melted Mandrax pills into his hair and stared at Dick Clark like a zombie, nor has he run naked down the street accosting old ladies with his weak kung fu technique. Maybe someday...