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King of vulgar words mispronounced for centuries

(Worchester-on-Tomichi) A foul expression of immeasurable significance in so many grammatical contexts, the F word has been incorrectly uttered since the Assyrians, in an attempt to draw the the enemy out from their fortified gates, taunted the Babylonians with the expletive at Tarbisu.

According to discarded idiomatic measuring vehicles unearthed near here, the word is correctly pronounced with a long U thus rhyming with clue or more closely Duke or puke. To further verify this startling account bits of pottery chards and beads from the ocean often accompany these miraculous finds that threaten to divert our attention away from what is our sacred idiomatic quest.

After the defeat and dismemberment of the Assyrian Empire in 615 BC the F word quickly assimilated into the everyday jargon, the street lingo, the downtown slang of numerous Mideast hierarchies, some of whom built rambling temples to the Great F.

But that was then and this is now.

After millenniums it’s much the same old song. The word has appeared with umlauts (two dots) above it and it has flaunted itself with the letter e at its rear end. It has broken stride with other more cooperative, yet compound sounds by inserting an h and sometimes even sneakily implanting the y sound for emphasis, thumbing its’ syntax at gerunds and misunderstood participles.

And if that’s not enough proof for you doomsayers out there: Only last month Russian dermatologists studying the layers of Mars and Saturn have discovered an ancient and forgotten code ensemble that clarifies stoic babbling and tramples superstitions. They contend that surface dust on both heavenly bodies interfaces well with the long-held misnomer that overuse of teenage skin creams made from lightly distilled, yet passable vodka can lead to redness and circles under the eyes.

Social scientists in the free world were hesitant to confront the Russians saying that it could take 5000 years for the people of the earth to begin to pronounce the F word properly again.

“This is not something that must be decided this afternoon,” said one.

-Kashmir Horseshoe

So far so good...

So far so good…

It’s Thanksgiving Day and I still have my head. Better keep a low profile until at least dark.

Tom Turkey’s Lament

A Shorter Than Expected History of One November Day

by Lamont Montague III

He was born on August 17 and, all things considered, that’s quite an accomplishment for any bird as stupid as a turkey. It is doubtful whether his father was present at the birth and probable that no one would have cared either way. His mother was a middle-age (by turkey standards) hen who has since disappeared from the barnyard. He was named “Tom,” which has been an appropriate name for turkeys since prehistoric times.

As a young turkey Tom played all the turkey games. He learned to gawk and twist his neck around into the most contorted positions. When the thunder rolled he learned to plea up with all the other birds of his type, usually causing a few of his fellow birds o smother. Life in the barnyard wasn’t exactly what one would call exotic, but it would simply have to do.

“The turkey, while notably the most ignorant bird in the Western Hemisphere, does fill a void in the culture. Take the Pilgrims and the Indians for instance. I dare say if it had not been for the stupidity of the turkey those miserable colonists would have starved to death for sure.”1.

Tom grew quite quickly and, because the owner of the turkey farm had not provided exercising equipment, he grew very fat. Although he had feathers and was in every sense a bird he could not fly. He couldn’t even jump. Despite these handicaps Tom developed mature relationships with some of the female birds. Most of them were as dumb as dirt as well, but a “well-read turkey is no good to anybody.”2.

The summer passed all too quickly. One day Tom and his breast friend Fred were gobbling about the barnyard when it began to rain. Most of the turkeys froze. They were frightened and amused at the water falling from the sky. The men who watched over the turkey farm began to herd the birds into shelter. Unfortunately all the turkeys didn’t make it and drowned while staring up into the clouds. Tom and his friend, Fred, were quite puzzled as to the disappearance of some of their fellow gobblers but they decided not to dwell on these matters.

“In 1778 Benjamin Franklin proposed legislation to the Continental Congress which would have made the Wild Turkey the national bird of the newly formed United States of America. Many of the delegates laughed and others stormed out of the chambers to inform the press of the old gentleman’s demise. As history tells us it was the Bald Eagle not the Wild Turkey which was proclaimed the national symbol and that is precisely why we don’t eat pork chops on Thanksgiving Day.”3.

Many other catastrophes befell the turkeys that fall as a few were wiped out by a fire in the hen house and another by a falling tree limb, but one incident outweighed the others in the fright category. On September 28 a young turkey, who had been born on the same day as Tom, was lost in a pile of falling leaves. No one realized that he was missing and in an attempt to procure nourishment he choked to death on an aspen leaf.

Like all youngsters Tom and Fred dreamed of running away to sea or of hopping a freight to California. Their dreams never got off the launch pad, though, as the dumb birds had enough trouble just finding their way to dinner. By the first week of October they were gaining two pounds per week and the turkey ranchers smiled as the two young turkeys paraded around their roost. That’s when they first met Spike.

Spike was likable enough, as roosters go. He had an arrogant stroll and a threatening glance for anyone who even looked like he might cross him. He looked on the turkey as one might look on an English Ivy plant.

“Hey, you dumb birds, get away from my fence,” shouted Spike one day as Tom and Fred stumbled around the barnyard. They just stared back at the large rooster, afraid to take another step. Spike was surprised and mistook their stupidity for courage.

“Well, I’ll be,” mused Spike. “Maybe you guys are different from all the rest. Come on over here,” he gestured. “Share some of my dinner.”

Tom and Fred gobbled over to where Spike was standing and cautiously began pecking at his healthy serving. They ate attentively for a few moments until Spike asked them how they liked the meal.

“Why, it’s delicious,” said Fred.

“Yes, delicious,” echoed Tom in agreement. “And there is such quantity.”

“Would you like to eat like this all the time?” asked Spike

Both the turkeys nodded excitedly.

“Well, you can. All you have to do is act important like I do. Be somebody. Quit gawking and gobbling and slouching. Stand up straight!”

The two birds stiffened on command.

“If you don’t wake up this could be your last Thanksgiving, boys,” smiled the rooster.

The turkeys looked at each other. Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving? What is Thanksgiving? It sounds pleasant enough but by the tone of Spike’s voice they couldn’t help but feel that there was a missing link. They thought about asking Spike but were afraid that they would blow their favorable status with the influential rooster. So they just smiled in agreement and attempted to strut like a rooster looking even more awkward than before. However, Spike’s words continued to haunt them all day and late that night the two turkeys discussed their recent experience.

“Do you think that Spike character is on the level? asked Fred.

“Why sure,” said Tom. “Look at how he lives. He’s free to roam the entire barnyard. And just look at the food he eats!”

“Well, what do you think he meant when he said this could be our last Thanksgiving?” Fred was trembling, but he wasn’t cold.

“Oh, he was probably just pulling our leg,” replied Tom trying to shrug it off.

The two continued a circular discussion trying to decide what this “Thanksgiving” thing might be. Soon they were fast asleep; thinking is a big drain on a turkey.

“Whenever you have more than two turkeys discussing anything more technical than a bowl of pea soup you have the potential of a full scale disaster. The only hope is that they are free spenders.”4.

As the first snow fell on their miniature world Tom and Fred wound their gawky way through a multitude of fellow turkeys still at odds about this thing called “Thanksgiving.” At first they were very worried about what Spike had said, but as the days wore on and nothing became of it, they soon put it out of their tiny minds.

“The memory of a turkey is in direct proportion to the size of their brain. The storage capacity approaches zero as the amount of data to be stored increases. In other words, their brain goes on the blitz. That’s how they can remain so carefree.5.

They came across Spike one day sitting happily on a water trough near the entrance to a hen house.

“How are you boys doin’ this afternoon,” he asked sharply.

“Oh, doin’ fine,” snapped Tom.

“It’s gettin’ on toward Thanksgiving you know. Maybe it’s time you boys made a break for it.

There it was. That word again. Spike laughed knowingly as the two turkeys stood completely still in apprehension of the rooster’s next enlightening bit of information.

“I can get you out of here before you’re somebody’s main course,” offered Spike.

“Main course?” asked Fred. “What do you mean?”

“A ‘Thanksgiving Turkey,’ you turkey!” Spike was beginning to realize that the two were as dumb as the rest.

“You mean……oh no. You couldn’t mean that. You mean…..they’d……eat us?! quivered Tom.

“You got it,” yawned Spike.

Well, as one might imagine, a turkey has little chance of making a decision of any kind, much less of this magnitude. Tom and Fred were very upset by this revelation but decided that a breakout was not the answer.

“I’ve never even been outside these gates,” said Fred, “in all my life.”

“What would we do on the outside without the rancher to herd us in and watch out for us? Who would show us where the food is? We had better take our chances here. Besides, nothing has happened to us yet, maybe you don’t know what you are talking about.”

This was quite a bit of reasoning for a turkey and a bit bold, too. When Spike began to get ruffled Tom and Fred retired to a nice, warm sunny spot for a quick nap before dinner.

As the month of November crept onward Tom and Fred became almost catatonic. They stopped eating altogether and avoided the pompous Spike who had returned to making fun of their confusion.

Tom woke up on November 15, which happened to be a cold, foggy sort of day. After a thorough search of the yard Tom noticed that Fred was gone. Tom didn’t know if Fred had taken Spike’s advice or if he was in preparation for the first phase of dinner. Spike was no help at all. He simply laughed at the troubled turkey, who gawked and gaped and stumbled and gobbled all over the barnyard in search of his friend.

Tom spent much of the next week in a complete void. Fred was gone – that was for certain. Spike was still strutting his stuff and all the other turkeys continued their gobbling opera.

One morning Spike startled Tom by speaking to him.

“Come over here, boy,” whispered the rooster.

“Well I see that you made it through Thanksgiving. That must be pretty embarrassing.”

“What?” asked Tom,” You mean it’s over. I’m not going to be dinner after all?!”

“Well, not now, anyway,” sneered Spike. “That reminds me….have you ever heard of Christmas?”

1 From Thanksgiving – The Revenge of the Tourist State by Montague Lament III, pp.67-68. Dog’s Nose Publishing House, 1981.

2 From Cranberry Sauces I Have Known by Montague Lament, Jr., pp. 39-41. Mashed Potatoes Publishing Inc., 1973.

3 From The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin by Montague Lament, pgs 3-5, Pumpkin Pie Press, 1945.

4 From Mincemeat Fever by Lamont Montague, Esq., pg 6, Ronald McDonald Publishers, 1966.

5 From Turkey Brains and other Appetizers by Montague Lamont, pp. 1106-1198, Julie Childs Publishing Co., 1984.

“Thanksgiving in Turkey”

Continued from in front of you

so that Bob (is that his real name?) and I and the kids were pushed down onto the pavement and told to keep our eyes to the ground as the entourage passed by, snaking its way toward Mount Ararat and the grave of the Apostle Paul.

“Hey, mom,” said little Bennie, “says in this brochure that Turkey is larger than Texas. Is that for real?”

“No, stupid, it’s just all that jihad propaganda,” piped sister Beatrice from the pruned position. “Where did you get that brochure anyway?”

“Shut-up bitch,” said little Bennie. “Nobody’s talking to you!”

“Now kids, let’s try to put our hatreds aside. We’re miles from our hotel and not out of this yet,” said Dad. “These people are naturally friendly and engaging. They just have to get to know us. I thought St. Paul was buried at Lookout Mountain…”

No, that’s Buffalo Phil, fool,” said mom.

Finally, and not without more fanfare, the procession passed. The strange men in robes told us to get up and walk to the east and we would find true enlightenment…and our hotel.

“I wanna see Noah’s Arc,” said Beatrice, “and the ancient city of Troy. What a beat vacation. All my friends in Chicago will laugh at me if they find out I came all the way to Turkey without…”

“Wait, daddy,” I said to my husband, “isn’t that the road to Istanbul, or is it the road to Constantinople? They must sell ottomans there. I just have to have an authentic Turkish Ottoman or I’ll just die.”

“What about dinner?” whined Bennie. “We’ve been here three days and I haven’t seen a taco anywhere. Today is Thanksgiving. Where’s the stuffing?”

“Now Bennie,” said my husband, whose name eludes me just now, “this isn’t America. One has to adapt. Sure, all of these rugheads wish they were in America, the land of the free, but they aren’t. They’re marooned here in Asia Minor…have been for centuries. I thought you liked the filberts in barley sauce that mom cooked up last night.”

“I want pizza,” screamed Beatrice much to the chagrin of a large angry crowd that had now gathered, blocking our exit from behind one of a hundred mosques that crowd the cobbled square. “I hate filberts!”

“And where is the football!” demanded little Bennie. “Don’t these Tartar savages know that it’s Thanksgiving?”

“I hate tartar sauce too,” mumbled Beatrice, “and Kurds and whey…

“Stop!” cried daddy. “Look a fez stand right out here in the middle of nowhere. I think we should all take home a fez as a souvenir from this lovely trip. Say there sahib. How much for four fezzes…is that the proper term? Yeah, four…and don’t try to screw me. I’m an American and I have rights.”

 At that he pulled out a U.S. fifty which the man selling the fez hats quickly grabbed and stashed in his robe. He smiled and then let go of the hats.

“Those hats look stupid,” said Beatrice, and for once her little brother agreed. We must have looked quite the sight wandering down those snarled filthy streets, sipping a Raki looking for some familiar signs of home.

“I have to pee,” said Bennie.

“We need to find a halkevi, or house of the people. Surely they will have indoor facilities…

“And cleanliness,” I crisply quipped.

“And a make-up mirror,” added Beatrice.

“And some good old American toilet paper,” smiled Daddy.

“We could ask someone,” I said melodically, swept up in the worldly banter of a man I no longer knew.

“None of these bozos talk American,” said Bennie

“Turkish isn’t so hard to learn,” said Dad as he wagged his finger at a would-be thief. “The Turks borrowed many Arabic and Persian words during the Ottoman Empire, then Kemal Ataturk changed the whole shootin’ match over to the Roman alphabet in 1928.”

“How does he know all that?” whispered Beatrice in my direction.

“Daddy was once a Middle East expert in of the Bush Administrations, dear,” I explained.

“It’s worthless information about a country that prefers figs to cranberry sauce, olives to pumpkin pie…”

“Shhhhh,” Bennie. Here come the mashed potatoes!”

As I looked up I saw thousands of men in the street. There were Turks from Ankara, Turks from Izmir, Turks from Cyprus. All were working together pushing a massive vat of freshly mashed potatoes, thinly veiled in Seljuk mohair, toward the largest of the mosques to the east of the square.

“Wow, dad!” said Bennie.

“Where are all the women?” asked Beatrice.

“Maybe they do celebrate Thanksgiving in Turkey,” I flinched.

“Look, kids. Look! It’s the march of the turkeys,” said Dad. “Look, honey, their coming this way. It’s going to be a wonderful holiday just like I told you. Honey? Honey? Hey, kids, where’s your mother?

“Oh, she was forced into that black Mercedes by two Turkish men who have been following us since yesterday,” said Beatrice.

“What? Forced into a car? gasped Daddy.

“Relax, man she’ll be back for dinner,” said Bennie.

– Luanne Julienne

Ms Julienne is a free-lance writer who lives in a big house in Connecticut. In addition to writing travel articles she raises amphetamines, which are then sold to collectors in New York and Washington.

Thanksgiving To Be Celebrated On Mondays Starting Next Year

(Washington) The federal government has decided to make Thanksgiving a Monday holiday in keeping with its concept of uniformity. The holiday, in which citizens give thanks for the year’s blessings, has been celebrated on Thursdays since its inception in 1623.

In 1789 George Washington issued a general proclamation for a day of thanks. That same year the Episcopal Church announced that the first Thursday in November would be a regular holiday, “unless another day be appointed by civil authorities”. In 1855 soon-to-be Confederate Virginia adopted the custom of a Thanksgiving Day. Ironically enough it was Abraham Lincoln who proclaimed Thanksgiving as the last Thursday of the month in 1863. In 1941 Congress ruled that the fourth Thursday would be observed as a legal holiday. In Canada the holiday is celebrated in October unless the Blue Jays get into the World Series.

“It’s that part about civil authorities that fouls up the muffins,” said one traditionalist who feels this country needs all the culture it can get.

“Why fool with a good thing like Thanksgiving. Aren’t there more pressing social issues to deal with here?” he spat.

Persons wishing to continue the Thursday celebration have been hereby informed that they are doing so outside the law.

“These rogue turkey day revelers must be brought to heel,” said Congressman Oral Noise, who first penned the proposal. “The next thing you know they’ll want to celebrate the Fourth of July on the fourth of July. Bunch of damn communists!”

Sources here feel that the population will put up a fight in the early rounds but succumb to the homogenized version of Thanksgiving before long.

“We’ll indoctrinate the school children first and then frighten the elderly into submission,” said Noise. “And if we have further problems we’ll put a tariff on pumpkin pie.”   – Melvin Toole

Local power company acquires Wyoming

(Nucla) San Miguel Power Company has reportedly purchased the state of Wyoming for an undisclosed sum according to unreliable sources here. The transaction went down smoothly although many residents there are concerned about the future.

“We’re not going to force anyone to move,” said one engineer at SMP, “we’re just creating an avenue for growth.”

San Miguel Power plans to harness the legendary winds that prowl the region and turn that resource into energy. The remainder of the state, with the exception of Gillette will be used for storage.