Riggy DeTuzzi | Wredit

Slutgiving is upon us! Buckle up for this shit storm!
- Moon Mutt said slutgiving, so we're doing slutgiving!

AITA for accidentally kidnapping someone for Thanksgiving?

Okay, so first off, I KNOW how this sounds. But please—*please*—stick with me through the absolute clown show that is my life. I (29M) come from a long line of let’s call it entrepreneurial morons with felony tendencies. We’re a “crime family,” allegedly, but that’s kind of like calling a dog that barks at toast a “security system.”

I do all the actual crime. Everyone else is just yelling over meatballs and accidentally smuggling oregano thinking it’s weed.

Anyway. It was my birthday last week (the horror), and my very Italian, very aggressive, very conspiracy-theory-coded mother INSISTED on combining it with Thanksgiving and throwing one of those full extended family nightmare meals. You know—70 people, 14 lasagnas, multiple police visits, a cousin fist-fighting a turkey, etc.

Now, because I’m the only functional human in the bloodline, I thought maybe bringing a date would deflect the “why are you still single” guillotine hovering over my head. So I did what any emotionally-repressed bisexual with mafia-adjacent trauma would do: I hired someone. Just for dinner. Just for cover. Totally professional. (Let’s call them “UberNot” for the sake of anonymity.)

Cut to us driving 45 minutes into suburban hell, both awkwardly making small talk, me thinking, “Wow, this escort’s REALLY good at improv,” and them probably wondering why the Uber has tinted windows and a gun in the glove compartment.

We get to my mom’s house. My Nonna tackles them in a hug before they can escape. My uncle yells “Riggy brought someone with skin softer than my alimony lawyer’s daughter!” Someone throws stuffing. There is now zero opportunity to explain literally anything.

UberNot TRIES to say something but my mother is already seating them at the table like royalty. She thinks they’re my fiancé. My nonexistent fiancé. Now the entire family is interrogating them about wedding dates, zodiac signs, baby names, and whether we’ll name our firstborn after my dead great-uncle “Tony Linguini.”

I realize the mistake mid-turkey-carving.

They blinked