So, that’s Tofurky, huh? Oh man, this is awkward. I appreciate you having me over for Thanksgiving, and I think it’s great that you’re living a vegetarian lifestyle. But I can’t eat this. It doesn’t have a bread-filled asshole.

Look, I don’t want to be rude. It’s just that every year, the one thing I look forward to the most is scooping soggy bread out of a dead bird’s rear end, and your dinner robs me of that experience.

It’s a family tradition. Every year, my father and I would hunch over the corpse of our holiday fowl. I would lovingly hold back the skin flaps around the asshole, while Dad rammed a fist full of stale cornbread up there, muttering, “Get in there!” One day, I hope to relive those memories with my own son as he reaches out his tiny fingers and holds open his own turkey asshole for the first time.

No, it’s not the taste of tofu, although, let’s be honest, it smells like damp newspaper dusted with marjoram. It’s really just the lack of an asshole. You say as a vegetarian that you won’t eat anything with a face. Well, I can’t eat a bird with an empty rectum. It weirds me out.

You didn’t have to get out the melon baller and try to make a mock asshole in the tofu turkey. It was a nice gesture, but let’s get real. There’s nothing like that first scoop of stuffing right out of the ol’ turkey’s back door. Your little tofu tunnel doesn’t go back all the way, and you didn’t even have to extract any bagged internal organs. You can carve a turkey breast, but you can’t just carve a new asshole. Only God and the good folks at the Butterball factory can do that.

Plus, your stuffing hasn’t been baked in simmering bird butt juices. It’s just been sitting there in that Pyrex dish, naked and dry. I feel like inserting that into this makeshift orifice would be disrespectful to real turkeys, you know?

I’ll tell you what, it’s late, but I bet I could run down to Safeway, get a Cornish game hen and a sack of croutons, and do this up McGyver-style. Sure, it won’t be a full-size asshole, but just like the first Thanksgiving, sometimes we make do with what we have. After all, we give thanks for the contents of and meaning behind the asshole, not just its size. Even the pilgrims and Native Americans could agree on that.

Stuff my own asshole with bread? Oh, that I could, but unless I can roast myself in the oven at 425 degrees for several hours, it’s just not going to be the same.

What do you mean I’m not welcome back after I head to Safeway? It’s not going to take long for me to shove a few croutons up that hen’s badonkadonk. There’ll be enough for everyone to get a taste. And everything else you have here looks fantastic! Pan of yams with marshmallows, green beans soaked in soup—your whole spread is just how nature intended this food to be consumed, with the exception of your freakish, bean-based, anus-free excuse for protein.

Whatever. Enjoy your tofu tragedy. I’m leaving this pale facsimile of a Thanksgiving smorgasbord and going home where I can eat my bird ass-bread in peace.