An anorexic's guide to holiday eating

FEAST OF BURDEN Soon this nightmare will be over

While most of us rejoice in the annual holiday of Thanksgiving—what with the spectacular parades, the close company of family, the backyard games of touch football—there is a group, silent in voice yet strong in number, for whom the third week of November represents a D-Day, a zero hour, a Gitmo of the living room. I'm speaking, of course, of our thinnest—and unquestionably hottest—fellow patriots: the anorexics. Every Turkey Day, these twiggy visionaries must face food at its most decadent: boatloads of sweet potato casserole, butter-based pastries, and turducken. All the while they must resist both gruel and notice, retreating to that place in their heart where they envision all of God's creatures marveling at their astounding fatness. Thanksgiving for a big-league 'rexy is like prom night for Carrie or waterboarding for a torture-hater. With the proper guidance, though, it can be conquered! To help stick-figured crusaders fight the good fight, Radar offers up tips that will keep them in the zone when it's time to chow down.

• Invoke history. No less a great American than Benjamin Franklin favored installing the turkey, not the bald eagle, as our national symbol. "For in truth the Turk'y is in comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America," remarked Franklin. "He is (though a little vain and silly, it is true, but not the worse emblem for that) a Bird of Courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British Guards, who should presume to invade his farm yard with a red coat on." Cast your decision not to eat the noble bird as an act of respect for one of our greatest founding fathers. Then accuse everyone at the table of hating you for your freedom.

• Get involved in serious dish-passing. Situate yourself between food-medicating uncles and hormonal nephews. Make like a seasoned air traffic controller and wave by dish after dish. Not only will you never have to eat the glop on your plate, but you'll also finally tone up those hideous man wrists.

• If you are absolutely forced to ingest a morsel or two at the table, be selective. The typical 15-pound turkey is 70 percent white meat and 30 percent dark meat. Go with the white: It has fewer calories and less fat than the dark meat. Insist on eating it dry, or with a small smear of defatted turkey gravy*. Repent by watching Supersize Me all through the night in post-gorge flagellation. Better yet, get the eighth season of Friends (the one where Chandler's at his fattest) on DVD.

• Dress to impress. This is not the day to flaunt that Rachel Zoe–approved 98-pound frame you've ruined your internal organs to sculpt. Wear sarongs, smocks, and other billowy garments over a bedrock of flannel. Drown yourself in form-hiding corduroy. This will reduce player-hating comments from Aunt Sheryl about how you look more Bosch than Botero.

• Subtly promote a family feud. Thanksgiving is the perfect time to bring up the fact that Uncle Ralph is in his brother-in-law's pocket for $4,037 after that coke deal went sour. In the resulting family-on-family moral pile-on, sit back in your chair and nod off to the concerto of acid in your stomach.

* if you're determined to be a gluttonous fat ass.

REMOVABLE FEAST Your fate, should you accept that extra helping

• Plant pieces of lint between your teeth before dinner. In the middle of the meal, grin widely and ask if you have any food stuck in your mouth. When people respond in the affirmative, pull a toothpick out of your pocket and declare, "I carry one of these around 'cause I put food in my mouth, like, all the time." This will make your relatives worry that you might be obsessive-compulsive rather than someone who wants to look his or her body-dysmorphic best.

• Adopt a small Latino child. Unveil him to the family at the Thanksgiving meal. Say, "Meet Gerald." Everyone will be so shocked to meet the newest family member that they won't notice that your serving of pot roast has made like Criss Angel and vanished from the room. If they're still trying to shovel food down your throat, point at Gerald and explain that a new child always adds a few inches to the waistline, and you're trying to keep the weight off.

• Offer political motivations for your refusal to eat. Declare, "I am not eating until there's peace in Darfur." Distribute heartbreaking photos downloaded from savedarfur.org and darfurgenocide.org. Pack up as many uneaten entrees as you can in Ziploc bags and pledge to donate the booty to the people who really need it. Alternately, tie your refusal to eat to the inability of gays to wed. That's how Angelina Jolie does it.

• Comment on the quality of the offerings. "The garbanzo beans are tasty!" If someone insists that there were no garbanzo beans, produce the handful you planted in your pocket and say, "I'm hotter than you."

• Anorexics are to bulimics what Shiites are to Sunnis, Crips are to Bloods, and Red Sox fans are to Yankees. But sometimes you have to bite the bullet and eat a shitload of food and simply throw it all back up afterward. Avenge yourself upon the stuffing, turkey, the beets, the turnips, more beets, and more turnips, then excuse yourself to the bathroom and pull High Rome. You may want to consult one of these since you'll need plastic that can withstand the mighty purge.

• Baste the turkey with E. coli. Drastic, yes, but a few cases of violent diarrhea will clear both the table and you of any obligation to consume rank poultry. Besides, after a few years, the memories of Granny and the cousins doubled over the toilet like so many hogs over a trough will be transformed into a feast of memorial comedy and nostalgia. What else can one hope for in Thanksgiving but a story to tell? Even better, those who are unaffected by the E. coli can retire to the living room for some actual fun: a sporting game of Jenga over a snack of salted napkins.