TGFC – Thank God For Chicken
Micah Engel
WARNING: Thanksgiving (aka the one day in a year during which you are legally required to be grateful) occurred on 22nd November, 2007.
Let me lay down the historical context:
In 1606 (i.e. the Year of the Orangutan), Pilgrims from Europe crash-landed on New England shores after missing their intended destination, Disneyworld. The children complained so much that the Pilgrims got fed up and told them to stop fighting “or else King James the XMVPII will bring his inquisitioners to chop off your head!” Then an American Indian who had been captured and sold into slavery came and introduced himself to the Pilgrims. (Me Squanto, got milk?) Seeing their desperate state, he showed the frazzled parents the basics of living in the New World: how to plant corn with dead fishes, and how to tie up their kids when they got too noisy. The thankful parents invited Squanto and his whole tribe to a big barbeque while John Smith and Pocahontas made wiener roasts. The celebrations carried on until one of the kids lit the forest on fire and burnt down the Indians’ village. Thus, the festival of thanksgiving was created.
Recent times have reinvented the holiday. Instead of using the traditional fireplace to roast the turkey, we now pull out a massive, black charcoal grill (which hasn’t been used since last Thanksgiving), fill her up with flammables, and douse her with enough lighter fluid to lift off the Explorer Space Shuttle. Usually one of my almost-deaf uncles will try to light the match before we’re ready, and the following conversation ensues:
Us (yelling at the top of our lungs): Stop! You’re going to end up dead!
Him: Huh? Go ahead? Okay!
*Explosion*
Him: Wowy! The 4th of July fireworks have nothing on this baby!Once the burning debris has been stamped out, and the uncle has received medical care, we proceed to lay the chicken on top of the grill. That’s right, chicken. Apparently health magazines say that turkey has too much saturated carbohydrates (aka carbohydrates that have had too much soda and have to use the restroom really badly). My mom seems to think substituting its closest relative makes it healthier. My opinion? Anything with the word “saturated” makes me think of Jay Leno dipped in gravy. Not a pretty picture.
Mom always seems to find the biggest, heaviest chicken around. Don’t ask me where she gets them. Judging by the size of the body, I’m guessing the creature has probably won several heavy-weight wrestling competitions. This rare breed of chickens must be kept in steel cages so they cannot escape, pacified only when they’re allowed to watch the latest WWF event. And they almost always have names like “Hell Fowl” or “Chickadeath.” For those of you who like these types of things, I found out on the Discovery Channel that this strain of chicken is directly descended from the Tyrannosaurus Rex and pop star Michael Jackson. Furthermore, the fossil record confirms that their ancestors, the Chickenus Gigantus, once roamed the earth during the late Croissant period, preying on slower and more vulnerable McDonaldus employeesus. "Rawwwr...I'd like a Big Mac."
Seriously, I’m no coward, but anybody would be unnerved by the sight of a 5 foot 10, 200 pound fowl being dragged onto the veranda. Mom had already plucked its feathers, which uncovered the giant vulture tattoo across the creature’s chest with the words John Stainbeak: I eat Mice and Men. As I moved closer to inspect the specimen, I heard a sound that chilled me to my bone.
“Honey, won’t you chop off its head?”
I looked warily at the axe my mom offered to me and then back at my opponent. The beak was dead-pan, a poker face of sorts. If I backed down now, I would never hear the end of it. With a determined look, I grabbed the axe and held it close to the chicken’s neck. The stunned prey would now feel the angry bite of the predator. Slowly I raised the tool of death above my head, already grinning in sheer expectation of the exhilaration that would follow.
“FREEZE! Get your hands up in the air!”
I froze with the axe above me. My head turned to the side as I observed a man suited in black, crawling from our bushes with a gun pointed at my body. My mom and aunties screamed, my dad rubbed his eyes in surprise, and my slightly charred uncle muttered something about the “chicken not getting cooked fast enough” for his liking.
“Mr. Engel,” said the man in black, “You’re under arrest for the apprehension and murder of a rare Australian ostrich from the L.A. Zoo.”
“Ostrich?” I said, stalling. “Does it taste good with BBQ sauce?” The agent walked closer to handcuff me, but as luck would have it, the axe I was carrying slipped from my grasp and with the flat side, knocked him senseless. As the whole family ran towards our car to get away before the agent awoke, I heard my uncle say: “I wonder what Zoo Keepers taste like with BBQ sauce?”Now here I am hiding at a local KFC joint. I’m hoping Colonel Sanders will keep the foul fowl agents away while I eat my final crispy chicken wing. (Mom’s already freaking out about the “saturated water” we’re drinking). Chances are I’ll be caught anyhow. Still, though my future looks bleak, I do have a reason to be thankful. At least I’ll get to watch WWF with my non-ostrich inmates. Just call me “El Pollo Loco . . . .”
And now, on a serious note: Happy late Thanksgiving! Let’s all remember to be grateful for the greatest gift of all, Jesus Christ!
