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This will be my last letter, because they just informed me I'm one of the chosen ones. I always knew there was no such thing as a free lunch, but I didn't know they were feeding me so generously because they were thinking about someone else's meal. I'm not really complaining, or looking for your pity -- I sort of knew it was inevitable.
We know they call this time of the year "Thanksgiving." All the stories we gobblers hear concerning that big holiday are about how a bunch of hungry people sit around a big table with too much food on it, and thank everyone except us gobblers. I guess that means we are the giving part.
I wonder what would happen if things were reversed. Like, suppose it was nearing the end of an other wise good year. It was getting dark and chilly, the leaves on the trees were turning a depressing brown color and falling off. It had been an enjoyable year, and all you wanted to do is spend some close times with your friendly gobblers, and remember all the good moments you shared the previous year.
"I propose, said Gobbler one, "Those of us who survive the culling out process this holiday have our own celebration. Like to celebrate surviving!"
"Great idea, Gobbler one, we could get one of them humans. They are bigger than us and there would be plenty to eat. Take some of this barn hay, build a fire and roast him. Wow what a feast."
"We could grab some fresh vegetables out of the garden to go with our roast human, and have our own holiday festivities."
"I'll make the stuffing out of a bag of corn feed, and some of those apples that fell out of the tree out front", said Mrs. Gobbler.
"Yeah, It's our turn. Tom, you're the senior turkey around here. Where do we get the human to prepare for this big meal?"
Suddenly the door behind them opens, and standing in the doorway, with the sun shining over his back, is the shadow of Farmer Johnson.
"Tom how about him?"
Curious, feathered gobblers strutted in circles around the unknowing Farmer Johnson as he refilled the feed bins and water bottles. "Gobble, Gobble, Gobble, etc."
He was a big man, wearing his nasty old overalls. He had on those worn-out old boots covered with dried turkey manure. His face was as wrinkled as an old turkey, and his white whisker hairs were in knots from the lack of grooming. His teeth were uneven, with noticeable gapes like an old picket fence. There was little meat on his chest, but his pot belly was tugging at the straps of his bib overalls, testing it's ability to contain those ugly masses.
The turkeys surveyed their prospective festive main course, and they all shook their crowned heads in unison, as they uttered, "NOT-T-T!"
The turkeys decided that Cinco De Mayo was a more appropriate holiday celebration. You remember -- when the Mexicans threw out their French invaders -- sure it was for less than a year. After all, theirs also was a rather shallow victory. No one ever retires on a turkey farm. They decided to take the corn meal and make some tortillas. They made their own human shaped piņatas that they could jump up and peck apart to get more feed. They roamed around in groups and gobbled tunes just like the mariachis. It wasn't exactly like Thanksgiving, but they were proud of themselves for throwing such a gala affair without sacrificing any more victims.
Oh Well, remember when you pull that warm, spicy, aromatic stuffing out of my insides and your then stuffing yourselves with much too much to eat, you should be thanking us too for the ultimate sacrifice. We do the Giving! Cheers!
Just call me GOB.
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