You get smarter when you die. Take it from me. I'm a turkey. The mortality rate of me and mine at the farm was pretty evenly split between being 'harvested' for Thanksgiving, and being so fascinated by the rain that we'd stare up at it--and drown. I'm not joking. We're a damned stupid lot by nature, but getting stripped down nekkid and having your head lopped off, in such situations, actually increases your IQ. Or, it did for me. Your mileage might vary. Don't trust me, I'm a turkey. Hell, I'm a dead turkey.
I'm pretty observant for a dead turkey, too. I bet all you humans never knew your Thanksgiving turkeys were watching and listening and analyzing all the weird quirks of your family each year. But oh yes, we are. OK, I am. I hope my brethren are as lucky.
So, as I understand it, the patriarch (as such) of this motley crew died recently, but is still here, and wishes he weren't. I can dig that. I certainly don't want to return to my days of staring at the sky and risking death at every rain shower. The father is clueless, the son plays with machines more than other people. Speaking of playing with machines, the mother has a secret lover. That's pretty standard fare I'd imagine. But this fellow's not a fellow. Or rather, he used to be a fellow? You either lay yer eggs or you gots yer eggs, 'swhat I say. And she hasn't been back to work with me since she took my bag-o-guts out hours ago. How rude is that? She left me with her daughter, who's excruciatingly anal about exact measurements. The nutcase balanced me on the food scale to see how many freaking grams I was. Do you know how hard it is to balance a dead turkey? Living, I devoted most of my brainpower to it. Which admittedly wasn't much, but still. Why don't they just roast the baby they never seems to shut up--they all seem to hate it anyway, so why not kill one less bird with one stone. Or however that saying goes.
This girl, for her excessive exactness of how many cubes of tofu per gram of turkey measurements seemed rather confused by a simple bag of some sort of spice. She seemed worried that it'd gotten mixed up with Anthrax or somesuch. I can only hope so--eating my meat with her anthrax sample stuffed up inside me might be a blessing in disguise to this hapless family--if human death is anything like my turkey death. Hm. I wonder if there's a turkey heaven where Thanksgiving turkeys go after we're eaten (or explode) that we get to hang around, stuff our wings up humans' asses and trade stories about whose family was the most fucked up. I'm sure to win the competition this year if so. I mean, really.
I don't feel so good. Kinda...gassy. I don't think I should have these kinda problems while I'm dead. Maybe that's the tradeoff for getting intelligent? Weird. I feel like I'm gonna explo*
Read the full story!
Grandpa
Adolfo by Omar
The Mom
by Abbycat
The Son Odom
by Anna Beth
Connie by Greg
The Dad by Jette
Carlita
by Pineapple
The Turkey
by Jon (me)
......One Weird Family
| email: | (my name) (`at') G r i f f J o n (`.dot')c o m |
|---|---|
| PGP | PGP Key |
| efax: | 1.925.666.3613 |
| IM | |
| ICQ: | 16386214 |
| Y! MSN AIM | GriffJon
|
| Web | |
| /. | #14945 |
| LJ: | LiveJournal |
| Flikr: | Photos |
My personal opinions do not necesarily reflect on my employers, schools, any government, U n i t e d S t a t e s P e a c e C o r p s, my friends, or my family.
They may not even reflect my current opinions
Furthermore, these opinions do not unfairly influence any official decisions I make in my academic or professional work.
If you wish permission to reprint or reuse anything within these pages, I require that you contact me for permission. I'll likely give it to you, and probably even a link back.
Software, scripts, and configuration files downloaded from this website come with NO WARRANTY express or implied, and are for use AT YOUR OWN RISK. They are available under the GPL unless otherwise noted.