Thursday, November 27, 2014
A Message From a Pardoned Turkey
(He slams the empty shot glass down on the bar).
Sure, I’ll have another. I’ll always have another. But not Butterball Johnson. He’ll never have another, or peck at another speck of cornmeal. He was my friend, and he’s dead. They took his giblets, Mac. His giblets! What kind of sick bastard does that?
So, why am I here? What’s so special about me? Is it the color of my snood? The shape of my wattle? I need to know why that’s not me up on the table, all greased up like a Kardashian with my butt stuffed full of breadcrumbs. They got the axe and I got the golden ticket. Sent to live on a farm in Virginia, with all the other pardoned turkeys. Living our days in luxury, all the feed we could eat, acres and acres of soybean as far as the eye can see. I should be grateful, right? Content. But at night, when I close my eyes, I can still hear Wishbone screaming. I tell ya, I couldn’t take it! So I flew the coop, hopped a freight west and I been lammin’ it ever since. Ridin’ the rails.
They called me lucky. That’s a laugh. Fate sneaks up and puts the finger on you, and that’s it, brother. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, why Kowalski’s on the table floatin’ in gravy with his drumsticks hangin’ out, while I’m alive and free. Yeah, I’m free all right. Free bird!
Hey, where ya goin’, Mac? Don’t you wanna hear the rest of my story? Mac? Ah, screw it. Bartender! Gimme another.