One Thanksgiving, our family meal was marred by a bizarre chain of events that I will recount to you now. My Uncle Bob was never a thin man, but due to years of drug overuse and an affinity for my grandma's cooking, the button on his pants was hanging on for dear life particularly hard that day. He was seated by the window so he could experience his unpleasant withdrawal symptoms without sweating on anybody's dinner, and I remember seeing him spazzing and talking to himself without blinking. About halfway through the meal, his pants button suddenly popped and went flying toward the other table, straight at Uncle Gaither's glass eye. Uncle Gaither yelped, the glass eye popped out, and it fell right into the cranberry sauce, which splashed allllllll over my mom's pristine white vintage lace tablecloth. Still obviously under the influence of something, Uncle Bob got up to help, but his idea of "helping" was attempting to rip the tablecloth out from underneath the feast like a cartoon magician. Food and a single eyeball went soaring and dinner was ruined. Eventually, we found Uncle Gaither's eye in the rubble, but it's been a little pink ever since that day. I can't help but think that if Uncle Bob had just been wearing these Thanksgiving Pajamaralls®, that catastrophe would have been averted, and he could have just slept it off, preferably in another room.