SPRINGVILLE ó Alas, it is Thanksgiving again. A time of thankfulness, joy and family. These are all wonderful things, unless you are a turkey.
Itís 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. Thatís all right with me. Fish donít care, one bit.
But I am on the lam, again. Where is that turkey-basting monster? Iíve tied her to her kitchen table with her own cooking twine. Sheíll never get loose, this year. Permit me a short chortle of maniacal laughter.
In fact, let me show you. Iím quite proud of my knots. Sheís right here, trussed like a turkey. Wait. Where is she?
Drat! Sheís 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 donít care? You just want me in the roasting pan, without any fuss? Never! Iím 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 Cuisinartģ queen. Youíre 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, Iím trash-talking you. Youíll 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, itís been a great run, but I guess itís time to step up to the plate. I made a funny!
The next time I see you, Iíll be sliced and covered with gravy. So Iíll 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 wonít be around for dessert. But, next year? Iíll be so ready for a fight. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger, Iíll be back.