While driving home, I am required to stop three times to allow hordes of Wild Turkeys to cross the street. And there are seriously more than twenty. In each horde. And Wild Turkeys are not particularly quick on their feet, on account of the effort and concentration it takes to coordinate the moving of the feet with the bobbing of the head. So I am waiting awhile because Wild Turkeys are also NOT VERY BRIGHT and do not see the imminent danger of 4200 pound automobiles.
Why do the Wild Turkeys cross the street, anyway?
Note: I am not telling a joke. I am asking a serious question.
Anyway, I believe it was Ben Franklin who championed the Wild Turkey as the National Bird, or maybe it was Aretha Franklin, I’m not really sure. Wild turkeys just get no R-E-S-P-E-C-T, amiright? The premise behind the whole idea is that turkeys have a higher moral character. Huh?
But aside from its high moral character, its penchant for attacking British Guards and being tasty, the Wild Turkey has little else going for it. And did I mention it is NOT VERY BRIGHT?
The Wild Turkey does not have much happening in its head. Unless you count that red gobbly thing that jiggles around on the male’s chin. The technical name for this apparatus is a wattle. And apparently the wattle changes colors when a male turkey is excited. Okay, then.
Simmer down, everyone.
Every year in the early spring, the males, well, their wattles change color. And I guess that the females go for that kind of thing and that gets the fellows all riled up, so they fight and argue and bicker to be the Alpha Male. That’s right. One Alpha Male wins a flock of ladies and marches away, the victor, taking his ladies off to some sort of Male Turkey Utopia. And he, um, services all the ladies in his flock.
Meanwhile, the whole group of juvenile Losers wander away, running around the streets in large unruly gangs, vandalizing flowers, chasing dogs. Probably selling drugs. Assorted mayhem. (That’s what happens when there isn’t a lady around to keep the men in check.)
And in the fall, the Losers really show their lack of brain power. As they gather in large groups to cross the streets, they decide that the cool weather is a good time to plump up their feathers.
Picture: Twenty male Losers. All plumped up looking exactly like those Thanksgiving centerpieces we had when I was a kid. Crossing the street in mass numbers.
They may as well ring my doorbell and say, “I’m here for Thanksgiving Dinner!”
But, heaven help me, I’ve become awfully fond of those little Losers with their blazing red wattles and empty little brains. I can forgive them pooping on my paths and running across the roof and scratching up my flower beds and gobbling at the crack of dawn.
In fact, I’m starting a new campaign: I think I’ll fix a nice hunk of beef for Thanksgiving this year.
Note: I’m not going to eat it. Just cook it.
Okay Oleander, You’re Up and Why Do You Always Get the Weekends?: Disneyland. What’s your deal there?