Why I Started Turkeys Gone Wrong
When I was 10, I bonded with a sickly turkey on my father's farm. Over the course of a few months I tended to its care, often waking at 4:00 AM just to fit in the rigorous direct feeding routine using an eyedropper, love, and some gentle coaxing; all of it applied carefully by candlelight. My sickly turkey soon recovered, then grew strong. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, it had become the champion turkey of the entire stock. My father drew me aside then and said, 'Son, we're gonna kill and eat that turkey.'
I watched with quivering lips from behind a crooked fence post as my father called 'Little Jimmy' by name. The fowl, who had since learned it, came waggling out from a team of wanderers expecting to find perhaps me. Instead, he found my father who quickly seized it and in a quick snap, threw it over a giant log, where, in a chump of the ax, the deed was done. Little Jimmy was no more.
My father brought the body of Little Jimmy, a little littler by the size of a head, waving over to me as he smiled. 'You done right-good by raising us this feast.' As he walked away to prep it, he affectionately scrambled my head with the palm of his hand and thick fingers. It was then I knew that one day, as I was sure to die, I would write a blog. And that blog would be a blog of nothing but of pictures of Turkeys Gone Wrong. Like, burnt turkeys, or, mangled turkeys, or, ferociously-devoured-by-dogs turkeys like that turkey in A Christmas Story.
I would do it. One day, I just knew, they would invent the Internet, build the World Wide Web on top of it, and then evolve a publishing concept called blogging, to be often accomplished using specialized software. And that's when I would do it. That's what I had to do. Had to do for Little Jimmy.
Little Jimmy. A little littler by the size of a head.