I could sit here and complain--if turkeys could sit. Why me? Why us? Why not buffalo meat on Thanksgiving? All year humans consume chicken as though their lives depended on it. Chicken soup, cutlets, tenders, salad, cache tore. Suddenly, one day a year, we are the ones slaughtered.
I can't even find anyone to play cards with. All gone. Last year I faked a limp. This year I'm hoping to fool them by hoarse gobbling, like I have a sinus problem. Poor cousin Wally. Ended up with a New Age family who stuffed him with tofu.
The other day I was conversing with a yam--don't ask its name, all yams look alike to me--and it was whining about its own fate this wretched holiday. At least you can waddle away, it sobbed. I'm stuck in the ground. I think it was having an anxiety attack.
The worst part of this is surrounding us with stinky Brussel sprouts. What sick culture concocted this outrage? They'd better come up with one helluva gravy for me, mushrooms included. Mushrooms just accept their fate. Cowards.
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