Turkeys: It's us or them

Being Frank, by Frank Ameduri

Despite the screams of soy plants and other legumes, fruits and vegetables everywhere, vegetarians and animal rights activists have sounded the annual alarm against the consuming of turkeys on Thanksgiving. Apparently these people have not read the studies that have proven plants have feelings, too. In fact, one study I read in the '70s confirmed that plants can actually read our minds -- which is why I promptly stopped watering my rhododendron. I don't want some moody plant spilling the beans about my private thoughts. Anyway, that study proved that if you think nice thoughts about your plant, the plant gets happy, while if you think things like, "I'm gonna take some scissors and mess up this mind-reading fern," the plant gets really nervous. I'm pretty sure that's true because once, before a particularly savage pruning, my plum tree broke into a cold sweat. What maker of coleslaw can ever forget the disturbing death rattle of a cabbage?

Anyway, those who would have us skip the Thanksgiving bird don't hesitate to point out horror stories like the fact that "40 million turkeys will have their beaks and claws cut off without anesthesia," as it says on the PETA Web site. Aren't turkeys loaded up with L-Tryptophan -- the drowsy amino acid? I mean after the traditional feast I'm usually good for a three-hour nap, and you could pull off my beak and claws with a pair of pliers without disturbing me. I think these birds are strung out on homemade anesthesia, folks.

Another argument is that the birds are beautiful. I can only think the people who make that argument have never actually seen a turkey in its unroasted state. The feathers are kind of cool, I give them that, but what's going on with the head? Think about it, if you woke up one morning with something like that hanging out of your armpit, you'd be shoving bleeding people out of line at the emergency room. That stuff on turkey heads changes colors, too. When they get mad, it gets more red. And turkeys are ill-tempered things. They go red quite a bit.

In fact, my friend Jay can personally attest to that thing called turkey temper. We were on a doomed deer hunt in New Mexico when Jay decided to try the tree stand approach. He climbed up into the tree and was just getting comfortable when a wild turkey decided to go code red. Now, farm turkeys don't fly too well. They've been bred to have very small wings and really big breasts -- which incidentally does seem a little cruel. Anyway, wild turkeys don't have that problem. The bird, which weighed almost as much as Jay, pinned him in the tree stand and went to work on my stunned friend. The insane gobbling and Jay's high-pitched screams combined to make a sound that still wakes me in the middle of the night. Jay's rifle went off four times during the attack, and we're still not sure if he was trying to hit the bird or himself, or if he was just out of his mind. No matter what your position is, you have to admit that nobody was ever attacked in a tree stand by a crazed cucumber. Cucumbers, as are most vegetables, a mild and generally happy lot. They might give you a little gas, but nothing that requires stitches or counseling.

It's not only the wild turkeys that have violent tendencies toward humans, either. I was attacked by one of the domesticated birds when I was a teen-ager. We were touring a turkey farm when one of the beasts took a dislike to me. I knew the mood had changed -- he got that look in his eye, and his head went lavender. I'd lost two hunks of my jeans and a fair amount of credibility with my classmates before I even realized I was under attack. If not for years of experience running away and hiding from bullies, I might have lost more than pride that day. Based upon those two experiences, I'd have to say, we've got to eat them before they eat us. And if they win, it won't be pretty. If you ever saw The Birds, by Alfred Hitchcock, you know what I'm talking about. And those were crows and seagulls. We're talking about 20 pounds of insane attitude here.

So that's what I'll be thankful for this year. After Grace I'll be saying, "Better you than me, Pal." Of course, if you want to murder soy beans and eat a tofurkey instead, go ahead. It's your table and none of my business.

Frank Ameduri is convinced turkeys are planning something sneaky before the holiday.