The Streets Will Run With The Gravy Of The Non Pie-Eaters

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! Having digestive disorders has taught me holidays aren't about food, they're about sappy warm fuzzy loving of your loved ones, so have a good time however you do it where you are, and as always thanks for reading my blog, it really keeps me going. Seriously.

Of course after you read my chilling tale of horror you may rethink encouraging me. *ahem*

On a chilly November morning, one shot rang out in warning
The ones who could fly took to the sky
Carrying the signal that justice was dawning.

From coast to coast many humans played host
To travellers hungry for flesh.
Restaurants and food banks all shared the same boast
That their turkeys had just arrived fresh.

From ovens and freezers, the vigilantes rose
Taking up weapons their slaughterers chose
"Pardon me!" the headless turkeys said
Pulling out muskets to shoot the chefs dead.

The sun set on houses engulfed in flames
Grinders ground down the meat-eaters' remains
A message was left in the ransacked malls
Smeared ten feet high in blood on the walls
A simple wish meant for you and I

EAT PIE OR DIE.

The Streets Will Run With The Gravy Of The Non Pie-Eaters

The Abominable Turducken.

Once there was a Turkey so irritated by the implanting of lesser poultry in its most private of parts, it took out an entire city.

First to go were the power lines. No news would be broadcast on this day of the terror waddling down the road. Some ventured out with their video cameras, in an attempt to warn the world, but they were flattened by the greasy knob of a drumstick.

The people of Lake Charles were helpless. Had it been a bad batch of Paul Prudhomme's Poultry Magic? How had they offended the gods of food so badly that this creation was now spitting molten liquid over the rooftops of the unsuspecting residents?

John Madden stepped in to stop the violence, but it was no use. With two crispy strips of flesh, the creature ripped Madden in two before he could even formulate an elaborate strategy to battle the bird.

"The bones!" cried an old woman. "It wants its bones back!"

The townsfolk gathered at the sanitation department. They rushed the garbage barge and began tearing into bags. Many things were found, but nothing that seemed as if it would be any use against the horrific, looming mass of flesh clomping towards them.

Suddenly, a voice boomed from the heavens.

"Stop right there, you bastard!"

The undead creation froze in its tracks. The people saw a tall figure standing atop one of the heaps of trash and their hearts leapt for joy. It was none other than Sir Ian McKellan! To either side of him, stepping out of a cloud of smoke, were pop stars Boy George and Sir Paul McCartney.

"We've come to stop this madness once and for all," McKellan said in a clear voice that carried a ridiculously long way.

The people began to think of fantastic side dishes they would prepare to go with their slabs of turducken. The river of drool dried quickly as McCartney smashed a bottle over a nearby stripped car and hollered, "Who wants to feel a duck up their arse?!"

A scream arose from the crowd as they stampeded out of the dump. The turducken smashed some of the mob as they passed. Boy George hurled a disco ball at a slow-moving man in a Larry The Cable Guy T-shirt.

With a ululating cry, dozens of vegetarians appeared at the borders of the dump to prevent any escape, and the turducken resumed its rampage.

When the sun rose the next day, all was silent. One very large stuffed body lay on the ground, with dozens of boneless legs sticking out of every orifice. The vultures would eat well this Thanksgiving.

Those who survived that day say they will never forget the way the sun sparkled off Boy George's makeup.


Any similarity between The Abominable Turducken and Hambo are purely bloody freaky and I am so utterly thrilled that I am on the same wavelength as Weebl & Bob that I want to cry tears of pure tomato sauce.

The Abominable Turducken.