Don't Gimme No Back Talk, Sucka

Yesterday we began our Christmas adventure by almost buying the biggest turkey on the planet. Our farm store informed us via email (which seems wrong somehow because our farm is run by Mennonites and I thought they were like the Amish and technology was banned) that the turkeys were running a little large this year and they would "understand if we wanted to cancel."

Dave and Janine afraid of a pumped up turkey? I don't think so, my friends. We bravely drove our Zip Car over the to the store, properly prepared with my extra large tote bag and empty egg carton to recycle because I am so evolved in that save the planet kind of way, as you may or may not know.

Anyway, we boldly marched up to the counter and verified our identification by telling the counter clerk our name. She then went out back as we waited with barely-able-to-contain anticipation. Ok, I kind of didn't really contain very well it as I might have squealed a little.

She eventually came through the door again with a very very very large parcel. This, people, was our turkey, our massive, Guinness World Records worthy turkey, the Mr T. of Birds. No, really, someone, somewhere said "I pity the fool who tries to cook this turkey." I'm not kidding, someone must have said that.

In the moments that followed, including the moment that the turkey was put on a scale and the scale (not easily fooled) refused to register the weight, I started to worry. I mean the leg on this turkey looked like a human leg, and that thought make me feel a little nauseous .

I started thinking about what time I would have to get up with the turkey in order for it to be done on time. I started worrying about being left alone in the kitchen with that turkey at 3:00 am - seriously that leg could knock me unconscious and/or possible kill me instantly or leave me brain damaged and bruised at least. I began to sweat.

After it was decided (best guess ) that the turkey weighed approximately 32 pounds, I had serious, serious reservations. Dave picked up the turkey (he's been working out lately) and we went to the corner to have a conference. I thought about our modest sized refrigerator, our great, but not giant oven, all those leftovers, as well as the previously mentioned scary--revenge seeking-dead-thing factor.

The clerk, sensing our reservations offered to see if there was another smaller turkey we could swap for. Not even a half second passed before I said yes. She suggested that perhaps they could cut Mr. T in half and sell 2 half-turkeys. I told her that was a great idea, knowing full well that even half that turkey could chase you down and bash your head in if he wanted to. Let's face it, this turkey escaped Thanksgiving. Surely he was a perfectly acceptable size back then. This was one smart bird, a sly, cunning mutant version of the usual dumb-ass variety.

Luckily there happened to be a less intimidating 27 pounder in the back and we gladly said yes and promptly secured him into our car seat which was safety approved for children weighing 20-40 pounds.

So, Merry Christmas Mr. T. Hope you enjoy wherever you end up, whether whole or in pieces. I'm sure, if you had come home with us - and after I wrestled you into the roaster and you realized you were behind the wheel of the Mercedes of all Roasters you would have accepted your fate, and gone towards the light without a struggle.

But still, I'm glad you're not here because you creeped me out.