gobbledy gobble gobble, glibbidy gloop gooble
Hello friends, my name is Peter — son of Duane and Karen. An average Broad Breasted Bronze, I eat and goble along until the next chapter of my life opens up to me — which will probably be your oven. How original. Thanks a lot. I bet you have vanilla ice cream too, eh?
gogg globbey gobble gob gob
Seriously though, you’re going to cook my glorious breasts and thighs–worthy of better treatment–in your oven? You may as well give it to your wife missionary style and then turn on some Andy Griffith. God knows you’ve never gone down on her, you lifeless twat.
gobble gobbledy gob gob gobble, gloop gloobidy
Now hear me out–I’m a bit biased on this topic. After all, I’m a turkey; since I’m the main entree at your dinner, you may write off what I say as the last desperate pleas of a dead Meleagris walking. Before you do, I entreat you to hear the ramblings of this old weary animal you so often showed off to your family and friends so that I can impart wisdom in your haughty ears.
gobbley gobble: gob gobby gobble
Brethren and sistren: if you’re gonna kill me, you better brine me so long that my meat is moist as fuck.
Gobbgob gobglog, gobble gog gook gloppidy globble gloob, gobble grobble gobbog
The obvious: during this holiday in which you profess all that you are thankful for, you will take me out behind the barn, place my head on a stump, and as I squawk and flail in protest, you will let the ax fall on my neck; my blood wikk spurt and spray all over you, after which you will skin and disembowel my corpse and throw me into an oven. If that’s not enough, you then make a ceremony out of cutting me up in front a smiling, salivating audience, all eagerly awaiting the opportunity to masticate upon my white and dark meat. Hell, someone may even get crazy and get a slice of me on a roll. Need I go on?
Give me a shred of dignity. Last week you were saying how cute I was and allowed your nephew to pet me, and now this–Jesus Christ Almighty man, self-reflect on your own barbarism here. But if I can’t convince you otherwise, I’ll at least insist you baste me in the best goddamn butter you can get.
gobble gobbleton gobbleygoob, gobbey gobber gobble
But this is all about me, and I’m just a turkey, right? First of all, while we may romanticize the way Pilgrims and Indians came together to feast and give their thanks for a good harvest, let’s not forget it was a deadly precursor to all-out genocide, and the eventual ruination of the native inhabitants’ culture and people. Moreover, it appropriated the native inhabitants’ practice of giving thanks to the Earth and replaced this with a Christianized version, giving praise to Christ and the Christian God.
I–a turkey strutting in your backyard–know more about this than you do. Pardon my boldness, friends, but get a clue. You cretins could start by turning off Modern Family for a few minutes and reading the Wikipedia page. So the least, I repeat, the very least, you can do, you prick, is smoke me for hours until I’m irresistible to your gluttonous, fat ass.
grobb gobble gobbey glopper gob gobble
All right, I’ll get off my soap box and go back to wandering aimlessly and eating your low-grade feed until I’m culled. Just remember my words when you’re praying over my dead corpse. And don’t forget to deep-fry me until I’m so crisp and juicy your dumb family will enjoy every last bite.