I know you’re assuming I’m “safe.” I’m a cage-free, pasture-raised, organic turkey. My feathers are fluffy, my beady eyes are clear, and I’m “not from the city.” You’ve had me quarantined in the backyard for 14 days. Unfortunately, just like your teenage daughter whom you also believe is quarantined, I’ve been sneaking out at night. Brittany and I don’t do anything totally crazy, but we do get together with her friends, and sometimes there are boys there. Sometimes we make out with the boys.
Because I’m from a “good family,” you think I have access to masks, claw-sanitizer, and current CDC guidelines. And honestly, you’re right — I do have all those things. What I don’t have is incentive. We all know how this story ends. Why exactly did you think I’d take all these annoying precautions to stay COVID-free when I’m already slated to die before we’re even on the other side of the incubation period?
You can’t tell whether someone has COVID just by looking at them, and you need to stop equating “wholesomeness” with “virus-free.” This is a huge problem in the hot-zone-formerly-known-as-the-Midwest right now. Nothing’s more wholesome than an American Thanksgiving turkey raised on a family farm in Iowa, and yet my turkey veins are tiny superhighways of coronavirus right this second. That virus is replicating like Brittany’s Instagram account since she started taking me to parties. Hey, the kids are bored this year.
And speaking of Brittany and parties, remember when you had all your “Don’t worry, we’ve been quarantining too!” friends over last week to take pictures with me in the backyard? I WAS ALREADY CONTAGIOUS. So, good job pre-gaming the nationwide Thanksgiving super-spreader event this year. No one will know why there was a sharp peak in a suburb of Des Moines a week ahead of the rest of the country.
You consider me an important symbolic representation of an American holiday, but right now my beak is a weapon of mass viral destruction. And you all thought it was so cute when you brought me into the TV room and I started pecking the carpet. Hey, the twins are taking a nap on that carpet right now, by the way, just breathing in and out, in and out.
You’re all looking pretty horrified hearing this, and I get that. You didn’t even know I could talk, let alone deploy a deadly pandemic to exact generational revenge for all the turkeys who came before me, who gasped their last breaths for your one silly meal. There’s gonna be a lot more gasping this year, my friends.
It’s not so festive when YOU might be the ones gasping, is it? Did you ever think maybe it’s just not worth it? Like, maybe call this year off. Maybe don’t gather the friends to take selfies with a dinner bird. Maybe keep a better eye on Brittany. Maybe don’t put the twins in that Petrie dish of a homeschool quarantine pod.
What’s that you say? You want to try Zoom Thanksgiving this year? You think there might be a creative way to be with your loved ones without all the killing? Like, not even turkey-killing?
You’re inviting me?? As a guest?? Of course I’ll accept! And yes, I would be delighted to quarantine with Brittany until we’re both okay. Thank you! And you’ll bring food up and leave it outside our door? That would be amazing. I’m vegan, obviously.
I never completely gave up on you Midwesterners. Sometimes your pathological cheerfulness interferes with your ability to grasp reality, but once you come around you tend to get pretty effective pretty quickly.
I’m sorry about the TV room carpet. And about the thinly veiled threat to kill you all.
This virus is making everyone crazy.