Man, I love turkey.
Stuffed, seasoned and cooked until just enough juice is left to make the meat moist – that’s what makes a good Thanksgiving. Put a plate of good turkey lovin’ in front of me and I’ll be satisfied for at least an hour, maybe even two.
Around the middle of August I start waking up at night drenched in cold sweat. I look around my room and shadows form pilgrims and Native Americans. In the back of my mind, a fevered voice whispers, “Turkey.”
In October, I look to the sky and misshapen clouds begin to resemble those sacred Thanksgiving beasts. As I stare, drooling, the benevolent creatures seem to look down and smile beaky grins. “Turkey,” they whisper.
When November rolls around, the anticipation is too great to bear. My heaping helpings of turkey hallucinations are not longer limited to subtle clouds and shadows. I start seeing turkeys everywhere. Feathers sprout out of mom’s head. My friends’ mouths are replaced with beaks. Everyone at work stops speaking English and start speaking “gobblish.”
Man, I love turkey. And I love Thanksgiving because it lets me celebrate the turkey with vicious bird-killing consumption. Therefore, I decided that the East Tennessean should run a story on this wonderful day.
And who better to write it than I, the bane of every turkey’s existence.
I considered writing a story about what ETSU students were thankful for. You know, a few quotes, some heart-warming comments about freedom and family. It had potential. However, that seemed too wholesome. And nobody wants wholesome. You want “sensationalism.”
I also considered writing about the origin of Thanksgiving. The tradition was started way back when by William Bradford, one of the first colonial governors. Celebrated on and off for years, President Abraham Lincoln set a precedent for having a national day of thanks on the fourth Thursday of November. Finally, in 1941, Congress made Thanksgiving a national holiday.
Of course, the only problem with writing about origins is that when you’re done with the background, you’re done with the story. And that last paragraph, my friends, is not enough to get my $8.50 from the ET.
Finally, I considered writing about pilgrims and Native Americans. But really, who wants to read about those guys?
They have no marketability. Show me a commercial featuring a pilgrim and a Native American arguing about the proper use of a fine quality flashlight and I’ll show you a gentleman who doesn’t care.
Show me, however, a turkey dancing in a vat of gravy singing “You Light up my Life,” and I’ll show you a man at Wal-Mart buying 12 of the said flashlights.
Like I said, I’m a sucker for turkeys, which, by the way, gives me an idea. I have decided to write a story about why we eat turkey on Thanksgiving.
Does anyone really know? I mean, I love the turkey, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not exactly the latest fad at McDonalds. What makes turkey Thanksgiving’s official bird?
I did a little research …
It all started with big daddy Benjamin Franklin. You may have known that Big Ben wanted the turkey to be our national bird, but did you know that he had a pet turkey?
Richard was the foul’s name, and Franklin loved his bird almost as much as he loved his country. He kept Richard in a pen outside of his cottage in Philadelphia and every morning he sat outside and watched the rising sun while feeding his feathered friend.
Seriously dude. He loved his turkey.
This is part of the reason why Ben was so adamant about the turkey being selected as the national bird. Why select another bird, Franklin reasoned, when you could select the turkey, God’s gift of avian splendor and grace?
But Franklin faced fierce opposition in his turkey endeavor. Chief of this opposition was a man named Benton O’Toole.
In Franklin’s day, folks held debates for recreation since there was no television or Second Levels where they could get their colonial freak on. And at one such debate, Franklin argued with O’Toole about the national bird issue, Franklin backing the turkey and O’Toole backing the falcon.
Of course, Franklin was a well-known author, innovator and patriot. O’Toole was just a crazy lawyer with a fetish for falcon feathers. Ben destroyed O’Toole, and the crowd so supported Franklin that Benton was jeered out of the town hall. And besides, turkey vs. falcon? Please.
I’m telling you people, it’s all about marketability.
Anyway, O’Toole was bitter. So bitter, in fact, that he plotted his revenge.
A few weeks after the debate, Franklin awoke in the morning and went outside to have his quiet time with Richard the Turkey. To Franklin’s horror, Richard was gone.
Franklin was devastated. He had not only lost a friend – he had lost a brother. He searched Philadelphia for days on end, but to no avail. Franklin finally gave up hope.
In his sorrow, Franklin received an invitation from O’Toole for Thanksgiving dinner. Somehow, Franklin removed his sackcloth and cleansed himself of ashes and put himself together enough to attend. It was rude to ignore an invitation, even from someone as crazy as O’Toole.
The dinner went well at first. O’Toole had a few friends and it was good for Franklin to get out of the cottage and mingle. He almost began to enjoy himself.
However, when it was time for the main course, O’Toole’s servants entered the room with a covered platter and sat it in down in front of Franklin. When they removed the cover, there was poor Richard, stuffed, seasoned and cooked until just enough juice was left to make the meat moist.
The turkey, as you know, never became our national bird. After Richard’s death, Franklin lost all desire to see his bird become a symbol of our pride.
However, word got out about the incident and pretty soon the turkey did become the official bird of something – Thanksgiving.
And that, my friends, is why we eat turkey on Thanksgiving.
Or maybe it’s not. That story never happened. I lied like O.J. in a room full of reporters.
The real reason we eat turkey for Thanksgiving has to do with pilgrims and Native Americans, but who cares?
The ET has their Thanksgiving story, you’ve had a good laugh, and I’ve got my $8.50.
And anyway, pilgrims have no commercial value. A turkey story can sell ads. A pilgrim story couldn’t sell water to a school of fish.
And that’s what the holidays are really about – hardcore commercialism. Right?
I thought so.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.

Author