I was five years old when a turkey tried to kill me.
Some backstory here: in kindergarten, our teachers decided to take us to visit a farm, because. . . I don’t know. I can’t really remember. I think it had something to do with autumn or some shit like that. Anyway, there was a turkey on the farm that they were raising up to be nice and fat and plump, because apparently bonding with your food before you cut its fucking head off and watch it flap about futilely makes the meat super moist and tender. Mark Zuckerberg does it, so it must be true! Anyway, I’m five and stupid and I think the turkey (or, as I called it then, “turkey-bird-bawk-bawk”) is cute, so I go to pet it.
NEVER. TRY TO PET. A TURKEY.
The damn thing immediately goes on the offensive and bitchslaps me with its giant turkey wings. I guess Farmer D-Bag decided to firm up the wing meat by keeping Turkey-Bird-Bawk-Bawk’s pimp hand strong. I tried to run away but was struck down again and advanced upon before the farmer finally stepped in and I managed to slink away back to my group. I’s not like I was harming the damn thing, either. I was trying to pet it!
Since then, I have developed a deep loathing for turkeys. Turkeys are assholes. They’re just socially awkward chickens if you think about it. And I’m pretty sure those red things on their faces are God’s way of telling them that He hates them.
Eat all the dicks, Turkey-Bird-Bawk-Bawk. Eat all the dicks and then die.
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