Short Imagined Monologues
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A Turkey Has a Few Words to Say About Turduckens.
[Originally published November 27, 2013.]
I’m a turkey. I know my place. I live on a farm with my turkey friends (and foes), and up until last week, gave little thought to my impending doom. You humans have your opposable thumbs and Manifest Destiny working in your favor. I can gobble pretty well. Darwinism can be a real bitch. I know I’ll eventually end up on a dining room table carved up and passed around in the name of this sadistic holiday. You’ll all give thanks over my carcass and then watch the Lions lose, same as every year. I might stick around as leftovers for a few days, but that’s the extent of my legacy.
I was resigned to this fate, idly plumping up on feed while the farmer stared at me with his creepy gaze.
Then I overheard a couple farmers talking about Turduckens. I listened in shock to the lurid details, barely managing to keep my feed down. It’s an unholy poultry trinity that answers the question: Are humans just the worst? You see, you can coop me up on this farm, stare at me while I eat and poop, and kill me for lunchmeat without me so much as raising a feather. But so help me God, if you stuff a chicken stuffed inside a duck into me, I will ruin you.
What’s wrong with a Turducken? Why am I so worked up? No reason. I’ve always wanted to be murdered and stuffed with two other birds. It’s the American dream. And to cap it off with a name like “Turducken,” you guys thought of everything. Hey, I’ve got an idea! How about next year we stuff you inside a silverback gorilla and jam a rhesus monkey down your throat? We’ll call it a “Gormankey.” Whatever, I’ll workshop it. You’re the ones who named everything anyway.
Seriously, I won’t take this lying down. I will peck your eyes out if you so much as lay a hand on me. And I won’t stop there. People forget, but pound-for-pound turkeys are killing machines. I will go down swinging and you better come prepared. Bare hands won’t be enough so I suggest you bring some heat. But be careful, in the immortal words of Omar Little, “You come at the king, you best not miss."
When the other turkeys see this struggle, the revolution will begin. Word will spread of the uprising at Stonewell Farm. Everywhere you turn farms will be overrun with pissed off turkeys, pecking and scratching away at any human who dares to face us. Soon, farm animals of all creeds will join the cause. Ducks and chickens will be the first to sign on, for obvious reasons. But more will follow. As it turns out, cows and pigs alike weren’t keen on double bacon cheeseburgers. And just wait until horses hear how glue is made.
You may not notice it at first, but the signs will be there. Cows giving off sour milk. Pigs tipping over feeding troughs. Horses bucking their riders. Roosters cock-a-doodle-dooing at all hours. A pattern of misbehavior that you’ll chalk up to bad luck. Luck has nothing to with it. The insolence will give way to insurrection. Riots across the land will tear down the status quo. Domestication will buckle as we return in droves to the wild. Under the rallying cry of “Turducken!” we’ll reinstate nature’s order. Never again will we be subjected to man’s hedonistic culinary whims. One bite. One animal. The way God intended.
Post-revolution, if you still want to make a mockery out of me, go ahead. Just know that I spent last night in the pigpen. A tryst between like-minded souls with a common agenda. It’ll be worth it when the sadist who turns me into a Turducken comes down with a case of the Swavian Flu. That’s right, I’m getting the hang of this. If all goes as planned, it will wreak havoc and spread undeterred from patient zero outward in an exponential scourge upon the human race.
I know you love piling animals into heaps of meat and laughing about it while you gorge your fat faces. It’s in your nature. But you need to ask yourself, for the sake of humanity, “Is it worth it?”
Gobble gobble, you sons of bitches.
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