Revenge of the Ninja Turkeys!
After last year’s turkey fiasco and the cookie incident, it was decided that it would be in my best interest to have a turkey pre-cooked for me. I honestly tried to argue with that decision, but I knew deep down that it was the correct one. So, I found myself at one of my favorite restaurants to pick up my family’s turkey. Easy, right? Nothing could go wrong. Really!
Gobble, gobble!
I had this feeling of dread as if someone or something was watching me. I entered the fine eating establishment to procure my family’s turkey. It was a glorious twenty-pound turkey, golden brown with stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, and pumpkin pie.
I have to take a moment to explain why there is no cranberry sauce. Every year my mom makes her homemade cranberry sauce. It’s a super-secret family recipe. So secret, she can’t even tell me why it’s cylinder-shaped with ridges and has a serial number on the bottom. Some mysteries will never be discovered.
Back to the story…
I’m weighed down with about a hundred pounds of food as I made my way to my van. I had to put the seats down to have room for all of the delicious morsels. As I was loading the last of the banquet, I heard something suspicious behind me.
Gobble gobble…
I froze. That was the call of my mortal enemy, the turkey. I stood pondering how it could have survived our last encounter. I waited and hoped that maybe it was my ravishing hunger that was causing me to hallucinate.
Gobble gobble…
I turned in dread, ready to defend myself with the plastic knives they put in one of the boxes. Those restaurant people always seemed prepared for a fight. Good thing because there standing before me were three live turkeys. It wasn’t my old nemeses that I defeated last year, but his brothers come to avenge him.
“Gobble gobble,” said the leader.
“You can’t have my turkey!” I yelled back.
“Gobble gobble.”
“Over my dead body!” That probably wasn’t the best choice of comebacks.
“Gobble!” That snarky turkey was good at insults.
I screamed my best war cry and attacked. The three turkeys circled me. The first one charged at me, and I kicked him away. The second rushed at me but was met with my iron fist of fury — the third hung back.
As our glorious and over the top battle continued, I didn’t notice the third turkey slip behind me and snatch my glorious forty-pound turkey from my van. I dispatched the first turkey with a perfect spin kick and a backward somersault. The second turkey tried in vain to tackle me, but I was too swift for him. My awesome karate chop stunned the foul fowl (yes, dear reader, I did say that). With a swift punch and my best Bruce Lee victory cry, I knocked out my feathered opponent. (Adam West could learn a thing or two about puns from me!)
I looked about surveying the parking lot for my other foe when I heard an engine growled to life. That turkey stole my turkey and was getting away in a turkey mobile (show of hands whoever shuttered at that statement, thank you!). I ran to my van, and the chase was on!
This was Mad Meleagris in Turkey Dome! I needed my Thanksgiving dinner back as I chased the crazed turkey, weaving in and out of traffic. I would like to take a moment to apologize to the little old lady in the Cadillac; you were just driving too slow. Flipping me the bird was both deserved and appreciated.
The turkey arrived at the pond before me (because, as I’ve been told, I drive slow). I was too late. It had placed my sixty-pound golden roasted turkey on a small boat and had launched it. I watched, shocked, as the turkey lit an arrow. His aim was true, and the turkey and boat were engulfed in flames like a true Viking funeral.
The turkey saluted his fallen comrade.
I cried out, “NO! MY TURKEY! MY DINNER!”
“Dad!” my son interrupted me, “You forgot to order the turkey, didn’t you?”
“No! No, this really is a true story. Really!” I defended myself.
“You promised us a turkey this year.” He said, giving me that cold stare that only a disappointed teenager could give.
“Well, we have turkey dogs. It still counts,” I said, smiling as innocently as I could.
“No, dad, it doesn’t. And please stop dipping your turkey dog in the can of cranberry sauce. That’s disgusting.”
Can of cranberry sauce, ah, ha! I know the secret! She makes the cranberry sauce and then puts it in a can to make the special shape. Man, I’m a genius!
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!! Gobble, gobble!
