The Day The Turkeys Went Bird Shit

Ugh. That is the sound my stomach is making right now; well, actually, it’s beating out the guitar solo from Free Bird–too bad there wasn’t a the in the middle, or I might have let the   poor sucker go home–and I am enduring insanely incredible, yet painful, string pickings.

Anyways, before I collapse into a coma for, who knows, seventeen weeks–in turkey language this is seven hours–I have something to say. No, kidding, nothing to say; but I do have to give you a package. Can you all take electronic mailing? Geez, I hope so; the darn thing needs a signature.

All right, I’ll forge it for you guys.

And…everything else seems to be in order here. You should have your own box cutters–careful, it’s heavier than a bloated turkey! Maybe it is a bloated turkey? Some dude at the gas station handed this off to me; yeah, he was wearing a pilgrim costume–little gold belt buckle and all–and I thought to myself: what the hell, it’s Thanksgiving, and I said I would give it to all of you.

Christmas came early?

Obviously not buying it…I can tell by the turkey basters in your hands.

Call me later, huh? I feel the need, the need for a nap…and some pie, in that order.

Enjoy. I guess.

(Inside the box)

The Day The Turkeys Went Bird Shit

A Script

[A small Native American village in which the Native Americans and the Pilgrims are together enjoying their second Thanksgiving dinner. Laid across the tables are yams, potatoes, corn-on-the-cobs, and…roasted turkeys.]

OWETOEP [eating some yams]:

Dear sweet Pilgrim people, you have again proven your worth in hunting down the dreaded  turkey fiends that haunt our homes. We can never thank you enough; however, we would gladly impart to you these cornucopia grenades collected from their den.

[He hands to GERALD a awkwardly shaped cornucopia stuffed with miniature bundles of gunpowder.]

GERALD:

This is wonderful, Owetoep. [He passes it around the table] Gaze in awe, children; it is a weapon of those damned dirty turkeys! Feel it! Smell it! Can you smell the powder?

[Halfway down the table a chair explodes. A small boy lies charred on the ground, his mouth full of corn.]

GERALD:

What has happened? Is Henry all right?

KATHERINE [touching the body]:

He is not all right, Gerald sir! He smelled the grenade too much! Too much!

GERALD [sweating and hurriedly eating turkey]:

Smelled it too much? But…but…it was protected! [He tosses down the turkey and looks at OWETOEP, who is busy chomping on a potato] You told us you collected them! They should have been safe!

OWETOEP:

I did collect them. [He laughs]

[Then as Gerald and Katherine watch horrified the Native Americans reach to the top of their heads and peel off their skin. Beneath are orange and yellow feathers; and on their giggling faces brown beaks! Each turkey steps out of their suits and pulls from beneath the table silver baster guns.]

GERALD:

All of you–all of you are turkeys! What terrible luck!

TURKEY OWETOEP:

You shall pay for your mistreatment of turkeys this year, Pilgrim man! We are Turkeys United: Fighting For the Rights of Endangered and Basted Turkeys! [Slowly he aims the silver baster gun at GERALD] Prepare for the most excruciating experience of your life!

GERALD:

Curse you, Turkey! I enjoyed every minute of chopping off your heads!

TURKEY OWETOEP:

Hasta la vista, Pilgrim man! BAKAW! [He fires the silver baster gun]

[There are screams and more screams and more screams…and then silence.]

THE END

Think daily,

A Southpaw

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