Thanksgiving — the only day of the year where I, a professional magician, willingly perform in front of an audience that’s already half-asleep, half-drunk, and entirely covered in gravy. You’d think the holiday built around gratitude and overeating would be relaxing, but no. For magicians, Thanksgiving isn’t a feast — it’s a full-blown endurance test where sleight of hand meets indigestion.
It’s the one day when you can’t pull anything out of a hat because someone already stuffed a turkey in there.
Let me explain why Thanksgiving is secretly the worst time to be a magician.
I. The Family Command Performance: "Do a Trick for Grandma!"
Every Thanksgiving, I make the same mistake: I go home. Within five minutes, someone says it — the phrase that haunts my soul more than any heckler ever could.
“Do a trick for Grandma!”
No one ever says, “Let’s let Alex relax,” or “Maybe he doesn’t want to perform for free between the green bean casserole and the emotional trauma.” Nope. I’m suddenly transformed from “beloved relative” into “dinner entertainment.”
So I take out my cards, start a simple trick, and halfway through my aunt interrupts to ask if the cranberry sauce is gluten-free. Grandma’s asleep. My cousin is trying to shuffle my deck like he’s tenderizing it. And the dog has eaten my thumb tip.
I love my family. I truly do. But they treat my magic career the same way they treat the Jell-O salad — confusing, unnecessary, and possibly cursed.
II. The Turkey Problem
There is no sleight of hand powerful enough to make a turkey cook on time. I’ve tried. I’ve chanted, waved my wand, and even pulled a rabbit out of the oven in desperation. (He was fine. Mostly.)
Every Thanksgiving, I think, “This year I’ll use my powers for good. I’ll make the turkey magically appear perfectly cooked!” What actually happens is I burn the skin, forget the stuffing, and end up slicing it in front of a disappointed audience that’s slowly realizing I’m less “Merlin” and more “Microwave Gandalf.”
III. Performing in a Post-Meal Coma
If you’ve ever tried to perform magic for a group of people after Thanksgiving dinner, you understand true despair. Your audience is full of turkey, wine, and regret. Their eyes glaze over like leftover yams.
I could vanish an entire deck, summon a live dove, and set the tablecloth on fire — they’d still just nod politely and mumble, “Nice trick, honey,” before dozing off mid-applause.
One year I tried to perform after dessert. Halfway through my ambitious card routine, my uncle started snoring so loudly it cut off my patter. I considered sawing him in half just to get his attention.
IV. The Pumpkin Pie Incident (We Don’t Talk About It)
Every magician has a story of a trick gone wrong. Mine involves a pumpkin pie, a dove, and an extremely flammable table runner.
Let’s just say when you accidentally ignite Aunt Carol’s centerpiece with a flash paper effect, your family doesn’t care that it looked amazing. They only care that the house smells like burnt cinnamon for a week.
The dove’s fine, by the way. He now refuses to appear unless contractually guaranteed “no seasonal desserts present.”
V. Kids as Assistants: The True Horror
Children are the worst assistants. There, I said it. On Thanksgiving, every kid under ten suddenly believes they’re also a magician. “I know how you did that!” they scream, as they stick their gravy-covered fingers directly into my card deck.
I once asked my niece to “pick a card.” She picked six. And one of them was a piece of lettuce.
And of course, they all want to “help.” So now my carefully planned routine has devolved into chaos, and I’m doing crowd control while a toddler waves my wand like a weapon of mass destruction.
VI. The Table Trick Catastrophe
Thanksgiving tables are chaos incarnate. There’s no space to perform — just plates, gravy boats, and judgmental relatives.
I once tried to do a levitation trick over mashed potatoes. Big mistake. My hand got buttered mid-performance. The card slipped, the gravy spilled, and suddenly I was starring in a live-action disaster called “The Great Gravy Flood of 2019.”
Everyone clapped, but not for the magic — for the fact that I managed not to cry.
VII. The “What Are You Thankful For?” Question
This is the moment I dread most. Someone always looks at me with genuine sincerity and says, “Alexander, what are you thankful for?”
And I have to resist the urge to say, “I’m thankful for an audience that pays attention, for doves that don’t unionize, and for gigs where I don’t smell like yams by the end.”
Instead, I smile and say, “Family.” Which is true. But internally, I’m also thankful for pockets deep enough to hide an emergency deck of cards and the self-control not to make my brother-in-law disappear.
VIII. The Inevitable Redemption Arc
But here’s the thing: somewhere between the chaos and the cranberry stains, something always happens. I do one small, simple trick — a coin vanish, a card reveal — and suddenly everyone stops. The kids gasp. The adults smile. Even Grandma wakes up just long enough to whisper, “How did you do that?”
For one perfect moment, the house is quiet. The family, for all its dysfunction, is united by something they can’t explain — wonder.
And that’s when I remember why I love this madness. Magic doesn’t just distract people; it connects them. Even if the connection smells faintly of turkey grease.
IX. The Closing Act: Gratitude and Gravy
So yes — Thanksgiving is chaos. The props get sticky, the audience heckles, and the gravy boat doubles as a stage hazard. But it’s also the one day a year where I get to remind my family that a little mystery still exists.
Between the jokes, the arguments, and the football reruns, I can still make something disappear — even if it’s just their stress for a moment.
And that’s something to be thankful for.
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