The Presidential Turkey Pleads Guilty
an amusing short fiction by R. D. Ronstad
Happy Thanksgiving and welcome to the underside, where nothing is at it seems or behaves according to established traditions. For my non-American friends, in the USA, this is known as “turkey day” since the large bird is the primary coarse at a family feast. One of our silly traditions is to have the President “pardon” a turkey so it doesn’t have to become dinner. How gracious!
This is the underside of that.
The Presidential Turkey Pleads Guilty (And Does Not Want a Pardon)
by R. D. Ronstad
Dear Mr. President:
I am writing this missive from the Willard InterContinental's Abraham Lincoln Suite where, as you know, all Presidential turkeys stay in the days leading up to Thanksgiving. I have seized the opportunity of accessing my "handlers" laptop while he dines at the hotel restaurant, the Café Du Parc (great table scraps by the way). When I finish this message, I will pass it on to housekeeping or one of the Secret Service stooges you for some reason banished here to guard me, hoping against hope that it makes its way up the chain of command and eventually lands on your desk.
Now, writing on a laptop is extremely laborious and exhausting for a turkey, as you might imagine. But I'm compelled to press on (pun!) because I sorely need, in all humility, to ask a favor of you regarding a matter of great import.
The favor I'm asking for is simply this: please do not pardon me when the time comes to decide my fate. The reason? I'm well aware that after a President pardons a turkey, the current practice is to send that turkey to live out its days at a science farm. I don't want to suffer that fate. I would rather die than be forced to spend the rest of my life in the midst of a rafter of mass murderers. Sure, they won't kill me. No one's going to kill the Presidential turkey. But they'll use me to further the killing of millions of other turkeys. I'm not the type of fowl that can abide that.
I also don't want to serve as a tool in furtherance of their abominable and disturbingly creepy practices, the true nature of which they try to obfuscate by portraying them as "scientific." They study turkeys' genetics and breeding and physiology for no other reason than to heinously satisfy the unquenchable cravings of heartless human predators like themselves. Force humans into serving as the subjects of such a snake-in-the-grass science and what would you call those scientists? Evil scientists, right? Maybe even archvillain evil scientists.
Finally, I do not wish to be paraded before the world bearing the kind of cutesy-wootsy name pardoned turkeys are always saddled with. Names like "Drumstick" or "Biscuits" or "Tater" or "Yam." How demeaning!
Now, if you have scruples about condemning an "innocent" turkey, trust me (or if you can't trust me, trust Google), turkeys can be real assholes. And when I say turkeys, I mean me. Follow along.
I once belonged to a gang of criminal wild turkeys.* In the beginning, we'd go on vandalizing rampages. We'd attack human property with abandon. Vehicles were our main focus, especially cop cars and mail trucks. We had issues with authority. But everything, really, was fair game: windows, mirrors, inflatable pools (great fun), gardens—anything we could get our beaks or spurs or wings on, or ram with our bodies.
Later we moved up to breaking and entering. We'd break a window or rip apart a screen door and wreak havoc inside homes. Pillows, couches and, of course, mirrors were easy targets. We often left a few feathers behind as calling cards so people would know the dirty deed had been done by turkeys.
Then as a matter of course we moved on to attacking humans. Postal workers were our favorite targets. (We're even on a wanted poster displayed in the Grand Haven, Michigan post office.) Like any gang, we were eager to protect our turf, and we looked upon mail carriers as interlopers. Once, we even encircled a mail truck and held the driver hostage for two hours. You should have seen his face! Priceless!
So I'm clearly dangerous. And if you let me live, and some day I manage to escape my confinement, you can count on me returning to my old ways. I would be a recidivist turkey.
And if all that's not enough, let me add that I have never shown mercy to a single grasshopper, spider, snail, worm or any other living creature I satisfy my appetite with, even when they begged for mercy. And I've never regretted not doing it. Why should you be merciful to me when I myself am merciless?
Now, I do realize that you still may be reluctant to have me executed. Who wants to be the first President in history to sentence a Presidential turkey to death? Bad optics, as they say, right?
Well, maybe not. As I understand it, your politics are like a barnyard these days. I know something about barnyards, and let me tell you, killing a turkey in a barnyard wouldn't ruffle anyone's feathers (except the turkey's of course). So take a risk. Who knows, breaking the turkey pardoning norm might even get you some votes. Let's find out.
Sincerely sincere,
The Presidential Turkey
P.S. The alternate Presidential turkey, staying with me at the Willard, has approved this message.
* I bet you've been told I grew up on a farm. Poppycock! I was kidnapped by a press gang.
There you have it! No need to feel guilty, just dig in and enjoy, and don’t forget the pumpkin pie!
Meet the author:
Bio: R. D. Ronstad mainly writes humor pieces and poetry. His work has appeared at Defenestration, Points in Case, Little Old Lady Comedy, Perfect Sound Forever (article), Bindweed Magazine and many other online sites. A native Chicagoan, he currently resides in Phoenix, AZ. These days when he looks around he sees the underside everywhere.