DAD KICKS THE TURKEY’S ASS

[reprinted from my book, Scary Spasms in Hairy Chasms: A Panoply of Paeans to Putrescence and a Cornucopia of Corrosive Coprophilia]


“Here it comes!” I announced as I proudly set our immaculately browned avian treasure down at the center of the table. My family obligingly made all the appropriate oohs and aahs as I seated myself between my son Stevie and my wife Kristi. “OK, everyone— dig in!”

But before we could start forward, 5-year-old Stevie, wiser than his years, cried, “But, Dad! You forgot the blessing!” I rapped the table with my spoon, calling everyone to order as I turned to my father. “Care to lead us in a blessing, Dad?” I asked. Dad grinned proudly. We linked hands and bowed our heads as he began his special Thanksgiving prayer.

“Lord, we thank you for so many things this time of year. We thank you for family and friends, for good food and companionship, for the coming cold of winter and the warm fireplace, and especially for your holy shit on a stick!”

Confused, we opened our eyes and looked quizzically at Dad, then followed his horrified stare to the center of the table.

Painfully, arthritically, the heretofore inert turkey struggled erect, standing up on its wings as we looked on in bovine stupefaction. Its drumsticks waved menacingly in the air like antennae on a satanic beetle as it pivoted to glare at each of us in turn. Then it spoke.

“You asswipes know nothing of pain,” the turkey boomed through its stuffing-filled butt. Its voice was a combination of Jack Nicholson and James Earl Jones. “Come-- I will teach you what it means to suffer.” The turkey gathered itself as if to leap at our throats. I pulled my wife and son behind me, using myself as a shield, but the turkey didn’t leap.

Instead, it rotated until it faced Aunt Ellie, who stood petrified and unable even to squeak. With a coughing, rasping “Pfaugh!”, the turkey disgorged its load of stuffing, which impacted Ellie’s chest with the force of a cannon. Ellie was thrown through the wall as the turkey cackled and began lining up on Uncle Sid.

Not willing to wait and see what else the turkey could spit, I charged the bird as Dad yelled, “Remember your training!” I launched a flying side kick that caught the turkey broadside and slammed it into the kitchen cabinets. The cabinets shattered as friends and family squawked and ran directionlessly. I followed my quarry into the kitchen and stopped. The turkey had picked up two knives that had spilled out of one of the drawers, and it handled them now with the ease of a master, motioning me to come get some. Dad moved to my side.

“Badass bird, huh, son?”

I nodded. “But we’ll do him.”

The turkey roared and charged us. I spun out of the way as Dad did a backflip and kicked the turkey in its plump and tempting breasts. Basting juice squirted in all directions. Stevie was in the living room and yelled, “Go, Grandpa!”

The turkey gagged and lost its grip on one knife as it flew over Dad’s head and crashed into a wall, but it immediately dusted itself off and charged again, leaping onto the dining room table to get some altitude. I was ready for this, and when the turkey made its move, I yanked the tablecloth up and over the bird, netting it. The turkey, sensing its impending demise, screamed like a woman as it vainly poked holes through the tablecloth with its one remaining knife.

Gasping for breath, I said, “Ready, Dad?” as Dad positioned himself in the living room and settled into an attack stance. “Do it, son!” Dad yelled. Grunting, I threw the bundled turkey toward Dad, who leaped into the air and did a jumping, spinning roundhouse kick which connected solidly with the bundle. We all cringed at the terrible crunch of bone.

Fearfully, we formed a circle around the tablecloth as Dad began uncovering the turkey. When the last fold of cloth was moved aside, we saw that it was nearly dead. Its butt cavity trembled as it tried to speak. “Assholes,” it said, now sounding more like Jay Leno with broken teeth. Then it died. Dad looked at me, looked at the turkey. Then he stood up and faced us all.

“Let’s eat! I’m starving!”

Except for Aunt Ellie dying, it was the best Thanksgiving ever.



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