I slowly crept behind the bushes for a photo op. After this photo was taken, he stopped, wiped the proud smile of his face, and saw me. I asked if he would be willing to pose for an upcoming blog entry, but he said he doesn't do the whole paparazzi thing. GO FIGURE! Tom said if he wasn't going to get paid royalties for his "sighting" photos like Elvis does, then he refused to give the media the time of day.
"A blog, eh," he said. "Are you Perez Hilton?"
"No," I replied.
"The Enquirer?" He asked.
I was slightly irritated but kept the peace. "Uh...No, Tom," I replied.
"That's Mister Turkey, to you," He said. "And you are?"
"I've got a blog," I said, thinking to myself, What a jerk. "I'm J.E. Bolton, THE FAVORITE THINGS GUY. Maybe you've heard of..."
He interrupted and smirked. "...Never heard of you," he said smug.
Tom Turkey somehow let down his guard and told me about his concerns: the massacre of turkeys for the sake of a holiday (A.K.A. Operation: Butterball), his petition to make chicken the traditional Thanksgiving bird, and how he was tired of being stuffed.
I said, "But Mister Turkey, sir, you taste SO good like that!"
And He said, and I quote: "Yeah...Let's shove handfuls of soggy breadcrumbs up your bum and see how good YOU taste!"
Then, without another word being said, his beady eyes puddled and his bottom turkey waddle quivered. He was one angry bird. Tom Turkey walked away and left me standing in the pouring rain. He muttered profanities about me, but I didn't care. In a matter of days, he'd get his and so would I.
I'll stuff his bum with Stove Top, and he'll give me indigestion.
Everyone's happy!
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