We have a routine of inviting family for the holidays that has kept us going as a species for generations now. Thanksgiving is about family because something something 25-pound turkey something pilgrims. You're not going to eat that much food on your own, and you're not going to invite any First Nations people over; that would be weird. Better invite your cousin. Cousin, eat this fuckin' log of cranberry: no one else wants it, and I don't know why I bought it. And he will, too, the son of a bitch, with his fingers. Same ones he grubbied across the Triscuits and assorted cheeses you put out before dinner because you figure that's what people do.
When you're a kid it's kind of fun to have the family over, and it grows increasingly less fun as you age until the day the torch gets passed to you to have a family dinner, and then, for some ungodly reason, you do it. You want to see what it's like, and what it's like is waking up at 6 a.m. to stuff a goddamn turkey and bake sweet potatoes and devil eggs for the next 8 hours so that 15 people can descend on your home like a swarm of gluttonous vultures, spend 30 minutes tearing everything apart, another hour digesting and farting, and then leave you with the mess to clean up. And you did it because your parents did it. Know what else your parents did? Had sex with each other. Not all their ideas are things you want to try out.
That's the dreadful problem with the majority of routines we get into: we keep doing them without question because it's just what we do. That's how you end up in dystopian futures in which humanity is long dead but our robotic servants are still at war with each other. Is that what you want? That's what every Thanksgiving is pushing us toward -- annihilation on a global scale. Fuckin' turkeys.