Prompt: One of the Turkeys on a Thanksgiving Turkey farm speaks out.
Yes, my American friends, relatives and traditional self-proclaimed voices of the the celestial forefathers
who walked in muck and braved winter's deluge ~ there has finally been a headline; one kink in the armor; one sole, "I'm pretty frickin' fed up with this turkey slaughtering" high pitched, falsetto champion in the turkey pen ( or is it turkey coop?).
"I have had it!" this garish irascible turkey goobled or gobbled...(whatever these wobbling, waddles of sound /speech/or dialect emerged).
"It is time, yes, time is now, no sooner, no faster, not predicated on power outages; nor cooks whose turkey forte amounts to leaving the neck, head, livers, gizzards (wrapped in sour plastic) within the majestic bird."
"Just throw that puppy in that non-preheated oven, get your solar calculator to cipher if each half pound equals one hour at 350' degrees (or is it 400' degrees?)."
"BUT wait, poor smuck, do you not live in Telluride, Colorado, a most isolated village wedged amid three Rocky Mountains?"
"And, is not the altitude one which causes visitors to wretch and collapse from a killer flu? Ah, altitude is over 5,000 miles above sea level....hmmmmmm....was that noted in your emergency phone call to the Food Network guys? Probably not."
Suspecting, this once-a-year cook could bear no more humiliation; he (of the wounded walker league) did not mention seemingly trivial data (why cause a ruckus with that old balding bird?) Slightly important info such as latitude, altitude, longitude, a wind chill factor below 10 degrees; or a roasting Florida temperature over 102 degrees.
"I want to make it clear," an obviously older, wiser, goose necked, shingle infected bird remarked; this time in Spanish, with Italiano mixed in (disguising his cuss words).
"My people, my bird friends, my tribes, my plump, meaty, feathered kaleidoscope of beauty, loyalty,
and trust; have believed in you millions upon millions of average air-headed amateurs toiling in your kitchens."
'But now all I see are pigs at a trough gorging turkey legs, sopping rolls in Crisco gravy; and of course those suburban souls bandaged with antiseptic to heal the nicks and erupting blood from skewered thumbs."
"Yes, your once-a-year assignment: just carve the turkey, already ~ has become a freaking disaster. Your head-of-the-house electric carving shears DID slice, and butcher, and dislodge your blood onto 5 lbs of white meat. However you also forgot to cut the trussing twine lodged somewhere in Uncle Vinnie's partials.
"And, glory to Betsy of course we had the matter of the symbolic wishbone-- the gosh almighty wishbone, praised for the yearly beer slugging tug of war between two grown men. Come to find out after muffled puffs of speech and running in circles, the infamous wishbone lodged it's greasy body in little Cameron's two year old throat -- with one side slamming his esophagus, and the othe pirouetting beneath his tongue."
"This gobbling, goosey turkey is now speaking up, for every bird that has been plucked, his neck wrung like a dishtowel, his face and neck chopped off, his gizzards, liver, and neck bones crammed into his backside; and finally, the indignity of being torched, burned, ablaze in grease; or simply as dried out as a pickle lost in the Mojave Desert. Enough!"