Life Happens: The Thanksgiving turkey gets his just desserts

SPRINGVILLE — Alas, it is Thanksgiving again. A time of thankfulness, joy and family. These are all wonderful things, unless you are a turkey.

It’s me. The Thanksgiving turkey. I simply refuse to be cooked, just like last year.

What happened last year? Well, that horrible woman who writes this column did not get her fiendish clutches into me. I foiled her on the roundabouts, as she chased me through Hamburg. And, in the end, she ate Thanksgiving sushi. That’s all right with me. Fish don’t care, one bit.

But I am on the lam, again. Where is that turkey-basting monster? I’ve tied her to her kitchen table with her own cooking twine. She’ll never get loose, this year. Permit me a short chortle of maniacal laughter.

In fact, let me show you. I’m quite proud of my knots. She’s right here, trussed like a turkey. Wait. Where is she?

Drat! She’s come loose. I guess the chase is on. What can I do? Where can I hide? And, more importantly, where are her knives? All of them are missing!

I am in big trouble. Let me just sneak out the back door. Oh dear. There she is, dressed like Rambo, with a bandolier of knives across her khaki-covered chest. Is it really necessary to be brandishing a meat mallet, with a skewer between your teeth? What would Joan Rivers say, about your fashion sense?

You don’t care? You just want me in the roasting pan, without any fuss? Never! I’m bounding away! Because turkeys cannot fly, they must bound. But she is hurrying after me with all the gracefulness of a gazelle in a lion-infested jungle. Where did you learn to bound like that?

The Iron Chef workout? Never heard of it. You are a formidable foe. I would bow to you, but you would use that to your advantage and stuff the dickens out of me, you wily Cuisinart® queen. You’re not even out of breath!

What are you doing? A lasso? Really? Come on. Your weak, little arms will never be able to capture me with that. Yes, I’m trash-talking you. You’ll never snag me with your rodeo tricks. Oh dear. She got me!

Not the gunnysack! Back to the kitchen, otherwise known as the torture chamber, we go. Be careful where you stick that celery. Is this your first turkey? Why are you smiling? Wait a minute. She is chortling! What a sore winner. Hey! How much stuffing do you think will fit in there?

Well, it’s been a great run, but I guess it’s time to step up to the plate. I made a funny!

The next time I see you, I’ll be sliced and covered with gravy. So I’ll wish a happy Thanksgiving to you and yours, before little Miss Crazy puts the lid on the roasting pan.

Have a piece of pie for me. I won’t be around for dessert. But, next year? I’ll be so ready for a fight. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger, I’ll be back.