I’m hounded by turkeys. They won’t leave me alone. Alfred Hitchcock should have it so good. Up until very recently it’s been particularly cold up here and the snows have hung around instead of melting in the sun like usual. So I scatter around a bit ‘o’ feed to give the critters a little help when times get rough. I guess I’m running afoul of the law by feeding the wild ones, but until the turkeys in Washington, District of Corruption make it illegal to destroy animals’ homes and bulldoze over their food supplies (they were here first, let us remember) just to line the pockets of some repugnant, greed-infected developer, I’ll keep helping ‘em out. Sue me.
Of course, no good deed goes unpunished. Ya’ try to be nice to these farkin’ bastages once in a while (I’m talking about the turkeys now – I’d never try to be nice to the other aforementioned bastards) and they come to expect it on a daily basis. You’d be surprised at how whiny and demanding turkeys can be; they’re almost as bad as people. (Thankfully, I was cured of the festering sore of conservativism – and immunized against liberalism, and every other political disease for that matter – a long time ago so don’t worry, this won’t turn into a diatribe on how turkeys are hungry and undernourished and beg for food only because they’re lazy crackheads who make zillions of babies so they can get bigger welfare checks and if we’d just grind up all the poor people and ferment ‘em into ethanol for more Big Ag taxpayer-subsidized profits, er, I mean cleaner emissions, everything would be two parts hunky with a generous smattering of dory. For fat, wealthy white men.) As you can see from the photo, if I’m a little late they prance around on the deck just by the door letting me know that they’re now ready for their own personal garçon to wait on them in the style to which they’ve grown accustomed.
The other morning I vowed to grow a pair and not let these bullies badger me. (Isn’t it funny how many words we have that suggest animals are the bad guys? BULLies, HOUNDed, BADGER. In psychology, that’s called “projection” or denying one’s own bad traits and displacing them upon others. I’ve never seen a cow bully anyone, never seen a dog hound anyone, never seen a badger badger anyone. But I’ve seen people do all three many times. Who says Freud is dead?) So I sat there on the couch as I typically do, sipping my morning uber-dark roast, watching the sun rise and resisting all the “gobble gobble WTF, where’s the food dude at yo, gonna’ pop a certified non-GMO organic molasses-coated nutrient-enriched vitamin-fortified easy-to-digest only-to-be-used-as-a-supplement-to-a-proper-feeding-program rolled oat cap in yer skinny white ass, bro” rapping outside the door. Suddenly a ginormous set of wings alighted from somewhere out front. I nearly wet myself in fear that an Obama Nobel Peace Prize “We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Trial To Find You Guilty” Drone was fixin’ to blow my mountain ass sky high for refusing my patriotic duty to buy truckloads of shit I don’t need on credit. Or maybe one of them there black helicopters I’ve read about on the internet pipes coming to fly me off to a secret “adjustment” camp deep in the hillbilly bowels of Georgia for not keeping Christ in Christmas. (Yes, I’m still a little paranoid after last week’s early morning no-knock grammar police raid during which I was repeatedly scolded for my excessively long strings of prepositional phrases and bordering-on-extreme-narcissistic-self-absorption overuse of the first person voice. On the bright side, they let me off with just a warning on the whole parentheses thing.)
Turns out it was a waaaaaay more serious threat: A rather incensed gobbler, apparently ringleader to this sinister cabal of avian hoodlum-ery, hauled up into a tree just outside the window, bobbing and weaving like Sylvester Stallone in his favorite pink feather boa, to give me a thorough gullet-lashing. And worse: a mean look that hurt my feelings. Now, I ain’t about to argue with turkeys who know where I live and are probably only days away from figuring out how to twist the doorknob. Have you seen the spurs on these brutes? I’d rather have Big Bird and Oscar work me over tag-team style with hot wax and a habañero-smothered strap-on than mess with this crew of straight-up bad-asses. (Who wouldn’t, eh?)
So I fed ‘em.
You would have too.