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Today is the day all turkey’s dread most. The Turkey Apocalypse reaches it’s bloody apex as all those folks who really like their birds fresh are out there behind the barn, chopping off heads and pulling feathers. It’s the last day of the carnage, the day where you find out whether your ticket will be punched or you have a temporary reprieve. A stay of execution, at least until the tryptophan wears off and the Two-Legged Eaters awaken from their naps, hungry for more.
It must be someting akin to Robert Shaw’s character in Jaws describing how, when he was in the water after the USS Indianapolis went down and the rescue ship had at last arrived, those last few moment’s waiting to be pulled out of the water were the worst of it all. Are you going to live or are you just another feast for a hungry carnivore?
Can you hear the conversation in the turkey pen, as a grizzled old survivor tells his tale?
“Uncle Jim Bob has got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll’s eyes. When he comes at you, he doesn’t seem to be livin’ …”
Don’t get me wrong, though, I’m a meat eater. Big time. I’ll gorge myself on turkey flesh as much as anyone tomorrow and go back for seconds and then gnaw the shit out of a leg or wing like a mangy neighborhood dog ransacking the garbage cans. Guilt free, too.
At the same time I hope that, when the karma bus for the human race arrives, it won’t be in the form of 20 foot tall, intelligent, space-faring Grizzly Bears who decide that celebrating a historical moment in their history will require the yearly, ritualistic consumption of those tasty, carbon based homonids two solar sytems over.
I, for one, am not lookin forward to having an ass full of seasoned bread crumbs as my final epitaph.