The views expressed by “guest essayists” do not necessarily represent our own. Regular visitors to this column may notice that a certain guest essayist pops up more than once or twice. The curiously named Bob Grump. In fact he was our most recent guest, although “recent” stretches back a bit. We think the guy’s possibly playing with us and suspect a “nom de plume.” But who cares? He’s a guest. And we have to make allowances, especially at this time of year. Meanwhile, we indulge the dude.
“Turkeys Ain’t birds!”
by Bob Grump
Yeah, yeah, I wrote a “guest essay” to you guys once that said “Ducks ain’t birds” and I was right about it of course, but hell, that was what? Like TEN years ago? Who’d even remember it? Now, here’s another even better fact of nature. It’s gotta be said, and said FAST, because well, just look at the calendar you’ll see why.
Here it is: Turkeys ain’t birds! So let’s stop using the word “bird” when we talk about them, their size, their weight, their juiciness or their dryness or their “tryptamine” which is supposed to make you tired…or that they’re “birds,” period. They have nothing to do with birds! Or with you bird watchers, two-fisted or not!
They simply have to do with our Thanksgiving, a day off work or school, a time to watch football, rub shoulders with dorks from the same sorry gene pool who travel miles to overrun the house and ask stupid questions like “how big a bird did ya get this year!” When Ma Grump answers with something like “Oh, twenty-seven pounds, she’s a biggie!”….you just gotta think: wait. Bird? Twenty-seven pounds?
Come on, I know what a bird is. I found one on the ground the other day, poor little guy crashed into our window with a “bonk” and was unconscious. Probably dreaming of twittering humans spinning around his head. And when I picked him up, he weighed like… lemme estimate…yeah, NOTHING!
Birds are light as a feather. No further discussion. But every year we hear blather about the Thanksgiving “bird’s” weight. Numbers get bandied about that are very un-bird-like! Then later, when the Thanksgiving feast is ready to dig into, somebody says, “Nice Lookin’ bird, Ma.” And I’m looking around the room, thinking—did the parakeet escape? Did a tufted titmouse fly into our kitchen when we held the door open to let Aunt Wanda waddle in?
Or did angry cousin Randy just flip one of us off again? What bird? Where’s this bird? You can’t mean that massive mound of browned crispy delicious DINNER in the center of our fiesta, can you? That star of our glutton-fest with its great sliceable side of “whitemeat” and its great juicy slabs of “darkmeat,” and its coveted “drumsticks” and wings? Wait. Did we just say “wings?”
Does our dinner have wings? Does that mean it really is possible that it’s part of the bird family? No! I would not eat a bird. A bird is a little thing that flits around and sings, and perches in trees, and comes in all colors and poops on your head which they say is lucky but that’s just BS speaking of poop. No. That dinner, that Thanksgiving center of attention is a freakin’ Turkey, not any bird. Sorry. Don’t call it that.
I like looking at birds—not eating them. I’m not a cat and I’m not a Cooper’s Hawk if you want to get fancy about it, as you two-fisted birdwatchers do, I hear. No. C’mon, a turkey is a plateful of dinner and tomorrow a slew of sandwich makins. For that I’m truly thankful, and I’m also thankful for you guys at the Two-Fisted Birdwatcher for once again giving me the chance to sound off. You’ve done it before, and now you’ve done it again.
Time flies, as do birds. But not turkeys!
