You Wish You Were a Fat, Little Turkey Now, Don’t You?

So, you fat whore, you didn’t get chosen to be pardoned this year. Weren’t pretty enough? Fat enough? Didn’t have a large enough wattle to impress Mr. President? Does that make you sad, bitch? Make you want to cry to your mommy, you fuck up? Well, you can’t! Because I ate her last year for Thanksgiving, and she was delicious. Served with sides of mashed potatoes and brussel sprouts that you could just die for -- but don’t worry, your time is coming. 

So now you’re stuck on the shelf at Acme on 40th and Walnut. You now need to prove to yourself that you’re not just any decaying carcass wrapped in copious amounts of plastic to solidify your juices, but the roundest, plumpest slut on the shelf. 

You want those stinky little capitalist consumers vying for you in the supermarket, fighting to bring you home, ram their fists up your ass and then dunk your tender meat in cranberry sauce. Mhmm mhmm mhmmmmm. Doesn’t the American Dream taste delicious? 

I know you’re scared, bitch. Scared that you’re going to be picked last, left on the shelf to eventually be put on sale next to Halloween decorations and expired yogurts they’re trying to pass off as cottage cheese. 

But, if you’ve come to me for advice on how to be a fat little fuck of a turkey, then it’s already too late for you. You should have taken more hormone shots at the industrial plant, stolen food from your competition and bench pressed more to build up some sweet muscle definition. You had high hopes of being fine, lean meat that your species is known for, but instead, you’re a sad excuse for poultry. Destined for a life of being over-cooked and dry. 

So, gobble, gobble, you filthy animal. Better luck next year -- or not.