A tale about the plight of the turkey

LOLITA HARPER

Ah. Only 36 tiny hours before my impending tryptophan high.

You know, the kind of mood-altering climax that comes only after a

satisfying meal of tender turkey, perfectly-seasoned stuffing,

steamed vegetables and gravy.

With my mind on my turkey and my turkey on my mind, the article in

Tuesday’s Pilot about Tara Anderson’s fifth-grade class at Newport

Heights Elementary School, really grabbed my attention. Using a

clever and imaginative lesson plan, Anderson read the children a

story by Dav Pilkey titled “Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving,” in

which all the pint-sized characters liberated turkeys from farmer

McNugget’s confinement. Her students were then instructed to write

poems about what it would be like to be a turkey on Thanksgiving Eve,

patterned after the popular, “Twas the Night Before Christmas.”

I thought I would respectfully submit my own Thanksgiving essay

from a turkey’s perspective, minus the rhyming. Here it is, straight

from the heart of Trisha the turkey, my fictional Thanksgiving hero:

I used to think I was ugly.

Every time I would glance at myself in the reflection of farmer

McNugget’s sunglasses, I would see an unsightly orange beak perched

on a scaly red neck, with a horrific wattle dangling precariously

from it.

I used to think I was disproportioned.

I have these thick thighs and scrawny little chicken legs. Um,

yeah, try finding a pair of Seven jeans to fit this figure. During my

teens months, I used to barely peck at my feed and then take a

two-mile trot, hoping to shave inches from my waist. It was a

miserable existence. I was gauntly, awkward and unwanted.

This was before I found G.O.D.

Gobblers On Display, an organization, formed by the wonderful

group of culinary experts, taught me to accept and love my body --

finding its true beauty.

My peeps have quite a following. The dance, the “turkey trot,” was

named after my ancestors and Neil Armstrong’s first meal on the moon

was turkey. Did you know that June is national turkey lovers month?

That’s right, a whole month just for us.

My once unsightly, pale frame can now be bronzed to a delicious,

golden shade. Gone are those itchy, annoying feathers, as the

gobblers offer free plucking to the “the chosen ones.”

And thanks to advancements in turkey breeding technology, I have

grown immensely, causing me to fall over at times because I’m top

heavy. I admit, it is a tad annoying, but now, instead of being the

last turkey in the coop to be picked I am first in line. Ready for my

close up -- my day in the sun, er, oven. Well, you know what I mean.

On Thursday, I will be the center of attention. The piece de

resistance. I will be pampered, bathed and massaged. I will receive

the latest in exfoliating salt rubs and aroma therapy treatments.

My fans will pace anxiously about the kitchen, tending to my every

need. Even the men in the living room will turn their attention from

the football game to check on my progress.

When the primping is through and I make my debut, people will

gasp. They will cheer. And they will clap at the sight of my toned

and trim body, perfectly perched on display. Pamela Anderson eat you

heart out.

No seriously, dive right in. That’s why I am here. Treat me like

the piece of meat I was meant to be.

This is my true calling. My reason for living. I am the star of

Thanksgiving and I am proud to take that final curtain call.

LOLITA HARPER writes columns Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. She

may be reached at (949) 574-4275 or by e-mail at

lolita.harper@latimes.com.