Archive for November, 2009

The Trouble with Thanksgiving

November 21, 2009

     I’m not sure this is the best way to celebrate Thanksgiving, dear. What do you mean? Every year the town transforms into ‘Turkeytown USA’ and, since I’ve taken charge, the event has gotten national, even worldwide attention. This town is on the map now. The Guinness World Records people are here to see the record broken for number of deep fried turkey dinners served on Thanksgiving. Cable news is here. We’re on the internet 24 hours a day leading up to turkey day and I’m going to be interviewed by the Good Morning America people live on Thanksgiving. How better to celebrate than that, honey? It just seems wrong somehow. Mabel, your fiance of eight years is going to be famous. How can that be wrong? I don’t know, it’s just wrong. You think maybe it’s not a traditional Thanksgiving? Here we are at the largest VFW hall in the state, with hundreds of deep fryers and tanker trucks lined up outside filled to the brim with peanut oil, ready to make a memorable holiday. Oh sure, in the past we had some participants drop stone cold dead after indulging in too much deep fried goodness, but thems the breaks, dear. The coroner’s report said their hearts literally exploded. Mabel, you take a chance walking out your front door each day of your life. You never had a problem before, what’s changed? I’ve been talking to the stranger that just checked into the motel over by the interstate. His name is Tomas Toorkay. Sounds French. I heard there was an odd little fellow staying at the Econo Lodge. Is that him? He’s not odd. Tomas was very interested about all the turkeys we have in pens out back. Mabel, you shouldn’t be talking to this foreigner. He may be here to steal my secret recipe. Probably take it back to France and add eels and frog legs, then call it ‘turkey ooh la la’ or something. Tomas has very soulful eyes. Better watch out, Mabel. He may be trying to bedazzle you. He said it was wrong to kill so many helpless turkeys. Wrong! Every year the boys and girls from the 4-H have a  grand old-time ‘processing’ them birds. All that stunning the turkeys and then slitting their little throats is more fun than any old video game. Besides, it teaches a valuable life lesson. What’s that? Eat or be eaten, honey, eat or be eaten. Tomas says it is a crime and his words move me deeply. He stirs something inside of me. I don’t like the sound of this. You won’t ‘accommodate’ me when I feel a little frisky after league night at the Bowl-O-Rama, but some Frenchman gets you in a tizzy with his words. That’s not right, I tell you. I don’t know, he makes me want to…baste him. Mabel! I’ll not have that kind of talk at the VFW! Have you no shame! I want to lay him down in a bed of stuffing, green beans with almonds and yams or sweet potatoes, I can never tell which is which or if they’re the same thing. Mabel! Get a hold of yourself! This foreigner has bedevilled you with his European ways and tight britches! Actually, he wasn’t wearing any clothes at all. What!!! That Frenchie is running around town nekked! I’m gonna call the sheriff! This is America, we keep our clothes on! Well, he was covered with feathers. Sounds like some sort of fan dancing weirdo to me. Mabel, did he make any improper advances? No, but I did touch his waddle. I couldn’t help myself. What!!! That’s it, I’m getting my shotgun! A man can take just so much…what’s that noise? It’s a…STAMPEDE!!! It’s Tomas! He’s freed all the turkeys and is leading them out-of-town! Come back, Tomas, I love you! What did you say, Mabel? Oh, nothing. That’s gratitude. We saved them Frenchies back in dubya dubya two and how do they repay us? They mess with our women folk and steal our turkeys! That feathery foreigner probably took those birds for some immoral purpose. Yup, something real weird and French, I bet. Well, time to put ‘Plan B’ into action. What’s that? I had a contingency plan ready in case we were ever struck by turkey rustlers, it happens more often than you think, honey. Uh huh Yes, we’re now going for the world record of most grilled cheese sandwiches served in a day. I gotta get in touch with the boys at Velveeta and Wonderbread. I’ll have to arrange an National Guard airlift, I wonder where I put the governor’s telephone number? If this isn’t an emergency, then I don’t know what is. I wonder if Tomas will ever come back? What did you say, dear? Oh, nothing. Are you mad at me, honey? How could I ever be mad at the woman who, in six or seven years, will do me the honor of becoming Mrs. Ferd Scroggins. Gobble gobble. What was that, dear? Oh, just Happy Thanksgiving, sweetie.

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