I just can’t help it: I must pursue this line of reasoning: If the fowl royal of Thanksgiving — the ruler of the feasting table — is the turkey (which I always thought should be our national bird, rather than the eagle), it only stands to logic, the crowning glory of our country’s current national feast of horrors should be our unduly elected president: large, meaty, rather feathery, variously orange and full of stuffing. I mean, talk about a turkey.
Shall I torture you with an entire column of metaphor? Or exercise discipline and behave myself with some less distasteful topic? You’ll point out rather than being the bird itself, the so-called leader of the free world is instead the one who carves the unfortunate bird in front of him, and we can surely agree Trump is indeed butchering our sad, wind-blown world into far too many disjointed pieces. So is he the turkey or the founder of the feast?
I’m getting far too much pleasure calling Donald Trump a turkey, so he is hereafter designated as such: our holiday turkey, overcooked, dry as a bone, truly indigestible. And slowly, his particular combination of bile and tryptophan are indeed putting our entire nation to sleep.
When shall we wake up? Isn’t it time for dessert yet?
So here we are in the middle of a deeply depressed period — at least for Democrats and all other form of liberals — wherein we see our rights taken away, our environment more and more legally unprotected, our economy devastated with larger numbers of people in danger of being disenfranchised in all manner of ways, and it seems that no one is doing anything about it.
The inmates truly seem to be running the asylum.
And — in danger of repeating myself — no one is doing anything about it. This is probably the most depressing of all: No one is stepping up and making this horrible fake president go away. He is in our faces 24 hours a day, looking stupider and stupider, and, unbelievably, keeping his base voters.
Yes, I know, there is the entire Mueller investigation thing — and everyone wishes he would step it up and report already on all the egregious things this fake president has done and continues to do. But, meanwhile, our country is going to hell.
However, enough complaining — it will never end at this rate — and let’s move on to what we can do to feel better. And dare I say, to feel thankful?
Drinking copious amounts of your favorite alcoholic beverage is always an option, but, alas, the hangover is not worth it. Why let this wretched man turn us all into raging alcoholics? When a higher power is referred to in certain circles, it is certainly not turkey Trump they mean.
So, let’s take a deep breath. Go ahead, do it now — breathe in and breathe out slowly — and take stock of what is possible to do to feel better.
Yes, first breathe. Breathing in our fair city is usually a fine and easy thing to do, redolent as the San Francisco air is with fresh gussets of fog and delightfully moist air, baked in clear and penetrating sunlight. Yes, breathe. We must not allow the chief turkey in charge of our poor beleaguered country to suffocate us. When we consider the outrageous actions he is implementing against women, minorities, our environment, plus our poor and underprivileged, it is enough to stop our breath with rage. But we must not let that happen. So breathe deeply.
By the way, my husband has developed what he calls a “Trumpett’s Syndrome,” which facilitates all sorts of deep breathing because whenever the turkey in chief comes on the TV screen, Peter starts exploding verbally with angry epithets, raging forth in percussive, foul-mouthed bursts, thus letting his anger cleanse his body with the force of a small hurricane. It’s laughable really. I mean, it makes me laugh. But is it funny?
Not really.
I am thankful, though, my dear husband makes me giggle.
So breathing and laughter. Two things we must not allow head turkey to deprive us of, though with his environmental moves, he’s doing his best to deprive us of the clean breathing part.
And then, there’s chocolate — my solution to pretty much everything that depresses me. Good, fine, and sweet mouthfuls of delicious chocolate. I am not suggesting we allow this foul fowl to make us fat, but, hey, at least if we do gain weight hating this man, the radioactivity will have more layers of flesh to get through to kill us, once he bombs North Korea. Chocolate forever.
And, finally, sadly, because it seems to make no difference, we must of course vote this man and his tattered party of evil minions out of power. So do the three Vs, as I call them: Voice your opinion, volunteer your time to organizations that work against all things turkey in chief, and vote against him and his ilk every chance you get. Voice, volunteer, and vote!
At least, so far, we can be thankful we still can do those three things in this wonderful country of ours, so thankful we must be.
And maybe serve something else for Thanksgiving dinner besides turkey.
