If you know me, you know I’ll eat just about anything. But I’m partial to turkey. Any kind of turkey. Even the slimy deli turkey that tastes like moist trouser socks. I don’t care. I’ve eaten my own crap, for Christ’s sake. In fact, I love turkey so much that some of the brats in my neighborhood think my name is actually “Turkey.” While they are clearly morons, it is my mom’s fault for exploiting my poultry lust in the most self-serving way. Whenever she wants to lure me in from the yard, she’ll open the front door and yell, “Turkey!” And I come running like some sorry-ass Pavlov’s dog. (But I am a dog after all. I lack critical thinking skills. What’s your excuse?) So anyway, some kids started calling me “Turkey the Dog” and I couldn’t respond because I can't speak the King’s English. So, my mom who thinks she’s funny but is not, says maybe “Butterball” would be more appropriate. Ha ha ha. Fat jokes. How original. But I was willing to let that go because Thanksgiving was approaching. And on Thanksgiving, I get the real deal. Not the deli turkey, not the occasional turkey scrap from a Gerard’s turkey pot pie. I’m talking real roast turkey -- with gravy. So, you’ll understand my outrage when I inform you that my mom forgot to defrost the Thanksgiving turkey. Are you friggin’ kidding me? I don’t care if I have to dial the 1-800-Butterball hotline with my lipstick dick, that turkey is getting cooked today and I plan on eating myself into a tryptophan coma.
23 November 2006
A Thanksgiving Blog from the Butterball Himself: Vito the Pug
If you know me, you know I’ll eat just about anything. But I’m partial to turkey. Any kind of turkey. Even the slimy deli turkey that tastes like moist trouser socks. I don’t care. I’ve eaten my own crap, for Christ’s sake. In fact, I love turkey so much that some of the brats in my neighborhood think my name is actually “Turkey.” While they are clearly morons, it is my mom’s fault for exploiting my poultry lust in the most self-serving way. Whenever she wants to lure me in from the yard, she’ll open the front door and yell, “Turkey!” And I come running like some sorry-ass Pavlov’s dog. (But I am a dog after all. I lack critical thinking skills. What’s your excuse?) So anyway, some kids started calling me “Turkey the Dog” and I couldn’t respond because I can't speak the King’s English. So, my mom who thinks she’s funny but is not, says maybe “Butterball” would be more appropriate. Ha ha ha. Fat jokes. How original. But I was willing to let that go because Thanksgiving was approaching. And on Thanksgiving, I get the real deal. Not the deli turkey, not the occasional turkey scrap from a Gerard’s turkey pot pie. I’m talking real roast turkey -- with gravy. So, you’ll understand my outrage when I inform you that my mom forgot to defrost the Thanksgiving turkey. Are you friggin’ kidding me? I don’t care if I have to dial the 1-800-Butterball hotline with my lipstick dick, that turkey is getting cooked today and I plan on eating myself into a tryptophan coma.
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2 comments:
Vito! Hilarious! Frozen turkey is better than no turkey at all for a pug! Let the Holiday Season begin......
Vito, you think that's bad...my mother gave me honey ham from the deli for Thanksgiving. I've never had it before. It made my stomach feel weird so I threw it up at Aunt Lynn's house. Who knows what she'll give me for Christmas! xoxo, Lily.
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