(A/N: Hellooooo! I was struck by the desire to write a quick Thanksgiving fic. Please do not skewer me if anything is at all like what's already out there, I swear it's not intentional! There are probably only so many possible Thanksgiving story ideas out there...so enjoy my spontaneous word splatter.)

Disclaimer: nope. No iCarly ownage here.

"How are those mashed potatoes coming along?" asked my brother Spencer. We were both in our kitchen, cooking away.

"They're mash-y," I said cheerfully, sneaking a taste off the tip of my spoon. Hmm, needed more butter. "What time are Freddie and his mom coming over?"

"Um, I think sometime within the next ten minutes," said Spencer, checking the clock.

"Ughhhhh, why does Woodstock have to be the only smart one on this dumb show?" Sam groaned from the living room couch.

"Sam! That show is a classic," I reprimanded her. "You know you have to either watch that or the Thanksgiving parade. It's our tradition to watch them!" I'd always loved the Peanuts. They were such cute little quirky kids, and Happy Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown! was something I had to watch every year or the holiday wouldn't feel right.

"Fine, but if I don't get some food in my body right now, I'm gonna be forced to break the TV set!" Sam threatened. "It's bad enough you just reminded me I have to look at not only Fredwardo, but his psychopath mom, too, while I'm trying to eat. Gross."

There was a knock on the door, and Spencer yelled that it was open.

"Hey, hey, party people," said Freddie as he came in, followed closely by his mother.

"Speak of the devils," said Sam, throwing her hand up in exasperation.

"Where should I put the hors d'oeuvres?" asked Mrs. Benson, igoring Sam.

"FOOD?" asked Sam excitedly. She raced over to the woman and snatched the platter out of her hands, only to give it right back. "Aw man, why'd you get me so worked up? This isn't real food!" Sam stormed back to the couch to wait.

Mrs. Benson looked offended. "This is so food! It's Carrot Crispies, all of you kids should have them to promote healthy growth!" she huffed.

"Why don't you put that over here, Mrs. B." Spencer quickly intervened. I sighed. This was going to be one of those Thanksgivings.

By some miracle, all five of us found ourselves seated around the table only half an hour later. What was even more amazing, was Spencer had successfully made a deep-fried turkey! You know how many people set those on fire? This fact, paired with the fact that Spencer himself seems to be flammable, has made me believe in holiday magic.

"Oh, that's a lovely flambe you have there!" said Mrs. Benson, pointing to a bowl on the counter.

"Flambe? What the- OHMYGOD!" Spencer ran to put out the cranberry sauce. I groaned; guess I thought too soon.

"Fredgiblet, give me the wishbone," Sam demanded.

Freddie looked at his plate. "I don't have it," he said, confused.

"What I meant was, find me the wishbone," said Sam impatiently.

"I'm not digging around inside a deep-fried bird carcass for a bone!" said Freddie.

"Why not!" asked Sam.

"It's stupid, that's why not, and why do I always have to do everything you ask? It's like-"

"Freddie, don't eat that meat!" said Mrs. Benson. "I almost forgot! Here, give me your plate," she said, gesturing.

Freddie gave it to her hesitantly. "What are you going to do with my food?"

"I brought over my mini puree-er. All this talk about bones reminded me that you could choke!" she scraped his food into a small blender that she set up in the corner. "It's turkey shake time for you," she shouted over the blending noise.

Freddie moaned and banged his head on the table. "Every year," he mumbled.

"Psst...hey Freddie," whispered Spencer. "When your mom's not looking, I made a secret emergency stash of spaghetti tacos you can have. Carly told me not to make any because they're not 'traditional Thanksgiving food,' but I made them anyway."

"Hey!" I said. "I can hear you, I'm sitting right here!"

"Carly, if you care about your friend, you won't let him drink his dinner," said Spencer seriously. I reluctantly relented. No one should be subjected to Mrs. B's nutso cooking, except possibly my cousins the Dorfmans.

Sam burped. "Is it dessert time yet? Mama's got a craving for some pumpkin." She stretched in her seat, and her feet banged into Freddie's.

"Sam, you kicked me!" he exclaimed.

"Oh yeah? Do you want me to do it again?" she challenged. "I'd be more than happy to." There was a crash as her foot made contact with both Freddie's shin and the table leg.

"Unfair!" Freddie yelled. He began flailing his legs around like a toddler in a highchair.

"I hate to interrupt your Extreme Footsie, but can we PLEASE just have a peaceful Thanksgiving for once?" I asked in despair. My friends stopped trying to kill each other and looked at me.

"Sorry Carly," Freddie apologized, looking ashamed.

"Yeah, sorry Carls," said Sam. "Oooh pie!" She snatched the whole pie right out of Spencer's hands as he set it on the table.

"Luckily I made another pie for us," said Spencer. "I didn't think we'd get any if I only made one."

"You're the best, Spence," said Sam thickly through a full mouth.

Now it was that time of the day, the time I had dubbed "turkey coma time." Everyone had finished their meals a while ago, and we were all spread out across the apartment dozing. Sam was between me and Freddie on the couch, Mrs. Benson was slumped over in her chair at the table, and Spencer was stretched out ON the table. Good thing he cleaned it up beforehand.

"Hey, Carly...Carly!" Freddie whispered urgently from his end of the couch.

"What?" I asked drowsily. "I was almost asleep."

"It's just that, Sam is kinda asleep on top of me," he said helplessly.

"Don't move. It'll be worse if you do. Just turn the TV on to football or something, and pretend to be asleep. The violence of the game will probably wake her up, but you'll be 'asleep', so she won't be able to blame you. Now I think I'm going to go back to sleep, if you don't have any other issues."

"Oh, okay. Thanks," said Freddie, turning the TV on. No sooner had he found the right channel and closed his eyes, though, there came a loud whoop.

"YEAH BABY, 22-18!" Sam yelled. "And get off of me, Freddifer, you're wrecking my gaming flow."

Freddie stopped pretending to be asleep. "You were on me! Look, Carly, you saw that she was on me, right? It wasn't my fault. And somehow..."

I tuned out the incessant bickering. All I wanted was my nap... Yet as I began to lose consciousness, all I could think was, I wouldn't trade our wacky holidays for anything.

(A/N: Well, there you have it. I don't like it that much! But I believe in the power of "practice makes perfect" and even if you write utter crap, it will help you get better as you go along. Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Or as a reviewer of mine said, Happy Thanksgibby! xD)