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Thanks-giving Day Tidings

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Fact-Checking The First Presidential Debate

Addressing issues ranging from national security to trade to their personal controversies, Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton and Republican nominee Donald Trump squared off in the first presidential debate Monday. The Onion takes a look at the validity of their bolder claims:

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HEMPSTEAD, NY—Saying he would probably introduce the falsehood in his opening statement or perhaps during his response to the night’s first question, Republican nominee Donald Trump reported Monday he was planning to throw out a blatant lie about the level of crime committed by immigrants early in the first presidential debate to gauge how much he’d be allowed to get away with.

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Thanks-giving Day Tidings

Every Thanks-giving Day, the Zweibel clan gathers at the estate to enjoy a magnificent feast of turkey-fowl, listen to the footballing matches upon the wireless-radio, and create a great bonfire out of dead leaves and kerosene-fuel in the court-yard.

This year, however, I will not be permitted to participate in the festivities. Doc McGillicuddy says I will catch my death of croup if I do and that I should remain sealed in my bed-chamber. No gravy-flavored pablum for me! And I was so looking forward to my yearly tradition of playing Squanto in the Zweibel family Thanks-giving Day pageant. In years past, not even my missing fore-arms and near-deafness has prevented me from teaching the Pilgrims to plant corn!

But I suspect Doc McGillicuddy was in no small measure influenced by the wishes of my family, who have no respect for the fact that I am the paterfamilias of the Zweibels, and that, without me, they would not be alive. (With the exception of the bastard D. Manfred, who, as I have mentioned in this space many times before, is the illegitimate result of a torrid union between my late wife and the coal-hauler.)

I suppose I'm still paying for an incident that occurred last Thanks-giving Day. Shortly after dinner, as I was being wheeled through the smoking-parlor, I over-heard some whorishly dressed great-great-great grand-relative of mine say to her rheumy-eyed brat, "That old man in the wheel-chair is one of your ancestors!" Incensed, I barked, "What do I look like to you, George Washington's mother, you slack-teated Gorgon?" Every-one groaned and gasped as though I had just urinated on a church. Before I could add any-thing, a servant came forth and strapped a leather gag over my mouth, and I was shunted away to my bed-chamber.

Despite my grievous treatment at the hands of my ungrateful off-spring, I remain thankful for many, many things. After all, Providence has been very kind to us Zweibels, in big and small ways alike.

Among the things I wish to give thanks unto Lord Our God On High:

Patent-leather spats.

The Gadsden Purchase.

That droll little "Wheezer" fellow in the Our Gang comedies.

Shawls.

And, of course, last but not least, black-strap molasses.

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