Uncle Sam is My Daddy

©Sebastian Kaulitzki
(licensed to Bill Graham by Fotolia)

Today, I found out President Obama munched lunch with Mitt Romney. I heard they had white turkey chili and grilled chicken salad with all the fixins. Them’s good eats and all, but I’d like to know why they didn’t invite me. You’d think with all his money, Uncle Sam could buy me lunch. Well I’m here to tell you, he left me out in the bitter cold. I felt downright neglected until I saw a bumper sticker that said, “Uncle Sam ain’t your baby’s daddy.” That’s when I got the idea to adopt Uncle Sam as my daddy.

My ex-dad, Fuller Plate, said he didn’t mind me disowning him. He disowned me several decades ago, and he’d be happy to give me up to Uncle Sam. Then he started to look around. When I asked why he was lookin’ this away and that, he asked where mom was. I told him she was at the grocery store. As if he were in a hurry, he smiled, asked for my papers and said he wanted to put his John Hancock on the dotted line right away. For the first time in my life, Mr. Scrooge gave me something I wanted. He said it was an early Christmas present.
I wrote the document earlier today, so I was able to produce it immediately. It said:

I, Fuller Plate, do hereby give away my boy, Empty Plate, to Uncle Sam. Hereafter, Empty Plate shall be the son of Uncle Sam, and the same shall henceforth and hitherto be his daddy. Whereof, the provisions of this declaration of dependence shall take effect immediately upon the signing of the same under my hand on this twenty-ninth day of November, 2012.

Yours truly,

Fuller Plate

Before the ink dried, old Grumpy told me to get out of his house.

I told him I needed time for my new daddy to pick me up. He said that wasn’t his problem. I was a stranger, and I was trespassing on his property. I argued that mom wouldn’t be happy. He said she was no longer my mother. She still had his last name, and I didn’t. He threatened to call the police if I didn’t leave immediately. To drive the point home, he picked up the phone and called 9-1-1. Luckily, Delbert Collins, our 9-1-1 Dispatcher, was on vacation. The Grinch had to leave a message.

While that old buzzard was still on the phone, mom walked in and heard the whole thing. After he hung up, mom lit into him like white on rice. She was furious. I told her everything that happened, and said Mr. Malcontent told me he didn’t want me around anymore. When I showed her the document he signed, she stomped into her room, slammed the door behind her and refused to talk to Grumpy McGrumperton. Later, when he asked her about dinner, mom said he was on frozen dinners for the next year, and I can stay as long as I want.

Fireside Turkey

Note: Click here if you want to hear Empty Plate's refusal to accept responsibility for this incident.

Two days before Thanksgiving, mom went to the grocery store and bought a giant frozen turkey. That bird was so big it almost didn’t fit in the freezer. Later that day, our neighbor visited, and started talking about his new turkey fryer. I loved the idea and was going to ask if I could borrow it sometime. Before I could ask, dad cut me off and said “Empty, you’ve had enough deep-fried food.” Our neighbor and my dad enjoyed a good laugh at my expense. Mom and I gave dad a dirty look, but he kept laughing.

When Thanksgiving came around, I spied our neighbor reading instructions and setting up his turkey fryer on his wooden deck. After he was finished, he came over to ask mom if she had any pecans she could spare. She said she had already used all the ones I hadn’t eaten in a sweet potato casserole. He said, “Shoot! Guess I’ll have to go to the grocery store.” Finally! My opportunity had arrived. The grocery store was 45 minutes away. We have a dime store and a mall in Simpleton, but no grocery store. We buy our groceries in Dullard.

While mom was whipping up the taters, I took the turkey out of the freezer, stuffed it in my shirt and smuggled it through the kitchen. I didn’t think she saw me, but mom told me to be careful with the turkey fryer as I tiptoed behind her. She has a seventh sense about these things. Before I got out of the house, I heard her tell dad to go with our neighbor and pick up another turkey. He asked what happened to the one she got the day before. She said she had to throw it out, because it accidentally thawed out and spoiled.

After they left, I sneaked over to our neighbor’s deck. I noticed he left a jug of oil next to the fryer, but he hadn’t filled the pot. My plan was to fry the turkey quickly, and wash the pot before they returned. I filled the fryer to the top and turned on the gas. While the oil heated up, I removed the turkey from its wrappings. The only thing that wasn’t obvious to me was how to lower the turkey into the fryer. When the oil was hot enough, I decided to drop the turkey into the pot.

The turkey shot out of the pot like a cannon ball and landed in our yard. Nothing got on me, but the burner set the oil and the deck on fire. I hurried home and asked mom how to call 911. She told me to pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1. Before the Simpleton Fire Department arrived, I threw away the turkey. As mother and I watched the firemen battle the blaze, we drank hot chocolate, talked about our neighbor’s misfortune and told one another other how thankful we were for the comfort and safety of hearth and home.

A Scientifical Case for Reincarnation

Thawing turkey

Some folks say reincarnation ain't scientifical. Applesauce! Reincarnation is real, and all of us have seen the perfect example of it year after year. What am I talking about? I'm talking about turkey. You know—that overgrown chicken that everyone loves to shove down their gullets every year at this time. We buy a turkey, prepare it and eat it for Thanksgiving. How you prepare the bird depends on what you like. For example some people prefer to roast their turkey while others want to grill it or smoke it. Some folks deep fry their birds. When all of the guests are gone, the family that bought the turkey has to deal with the question of leftovers.

Folks are creative with leftover turkey. They use it to make sandwiches, casseroles, soup, turkey a la king. As we get further away from Thanksgiving, they use it in mystery meals. Every year, people think of new ways to go cold turkey.

Thanksgiving turkey

This rehashing goes on for several weeks after Thanksgiving. Turkey sandwiches show up on the midnight menu. Turkey casserole shows up the Monday after. A week later, it’s turkey soup. This goes on until we don’t want to see turkey again for another year. Yesterday, the turkey was a bird. Today, it’s a sandwich. Tomorrow, it's soup. It was reincarnated.

Every time I talk about reincarnated turkey, some hotshot asks “Did the departed turkey go to heaven or hell”? I don't care to answer such a ridiculous questions. If I had to guess, though, I'd say that turkeys want to avoid both places. In hell, everything’s roasting; in heaven, they're always having a feast. I wouldn’t want to be a turkey in either situation.

Even with reincarnation, the turkey shows up on someone's dinner table every time it comes back. Why do turkeys have to pay such a high price for us to say we’re thankful for this, that and what not? You know, I feel sorry for turkeys. We gobble them up like they were nothing. Just the same, I don't plan to stop eating the big bird.

Half-eaten turkey

As for the usefulness of the turkey’s body after death, it's undeniable. Even if you don't eat the whole thing, it's going to be useful to something. Some buzzard at a landfill will have a delightful time feasting on any turkey you decide not to eat. What the buzzard doesn't eat, the maggot will enjoy, and so on down the food chain. The turkey comes back again and again in different forms. That, my friend, is reincarnation.

Now you may ask how I know all of this turkey talk is scientifical. In fact, you may be saying that all I’ve done up until now is use stories for my evidence. Well I’m here to tell you that's all I need. Any story that backs up my point is just fine.

Since we’re on the subject of science, let’s talk about what it means. I’ve been told science is based on repeated observation. Do families come up with different ways to use their leftover turkey every year? Why yes they do! In fact, it’s been going on for quite a long time, hasn’t it? Is it not a repeated observation that turkey comes back in many forms every year? Why yes it is. I’ve just established the case for reincarnation.

Another scientifical principle is the use of test groups and control groups to prove or disprove a hypotenuse. That's fancy words for a shot in the dark. One group eats a turkey and throws the leftovers away. That's the test group, and they flunked. The control group takes control and uses the leftovers for different meals as long as they last.

When they see that the turkey's no longer in their frigilators, the test group folks think that's the end of it. Little do they know that a group of buzzards at the landfill has transformed their turkeys into maggot surprise. When the maggots finish eating the turkey down to the bone, they turn it into droppings, which then become another feast for small, squiggly things deeper down the landfill.

Meanwhile, the control group turns the turkey into a variety of other dishes and do the same thing the maggots do. We ain't special in that regard. So, the turkey ends up becoming a bacterial feast, and then it becomes fertilizer for our crops, which ultimately make it into turkey food and back on our table. There you have it! I've made the case for turkey reincarnation with the scientifical method.

Every time you gnaw on a turkey leg, part of it is reborn in your gut. It may not be easy to recognize at first, but you change when you put that turkey in your mouth. At first, it just makes you yawn. Then, you sit down in your recliner and fall asleep and grow a little fatter. Some people get a lot fatter after gobbling down a thanksgiving turkey. I know I do. From the size of my pants, I’m pretty sure that lots of turkeys have been reborn in me.

Apparently, those turkeys had lots of dressing because I waddle everywhere I go. When you get older, you’ll find that the turkey repeats on you after dinner. If you eat a lot of turkey like I do, it can repeat on you for the rest of the day. I consider that a bad form of reincarnation. My doctor, a man of science, agrees with me. He looks like he’s downed a few turkeys himself.

Turkeys are a lot like old cars in the junkyard. You can tear them apart and put them back together again in completely different ways. And when that turkey finishes breaking down as much as it can, what’s left of it will become part of something else until it's completely recycled. Case closed!

Edible Complex

Family Therapy?

Last week, dad told mom they needed to lay down the law with me. Within seconds, a shouting match erupted and that went on until dad said we needed to see a family counselor. What old crusty didn’t realize, however, is that mom knew he was the problem, not me. Mom scheduled an appointment with a therapist. His name was Grégoire Paramour, L.P.S.W. (pronounced Gregwire Paymore, Lips).

When we sat down, he asked us to tell our story. Dad complained that I was overly attached to mom. To illustrate his point, he said I still ask to sleep with them when I’m frightened. Dad continued with a long yarn of accusations, saying mom had coddled and cossetted me for 75 years, and I was spoiled rotten.

Mr. Paramour then turned to mom and asked what she thought.

Fighting back tears, mom looked at dad and said, “Fuller, you’ve never felt an ounce of compassion for our son. You’ve done nothing but whine for 75 years that Empty needs a spanking.” Then, she turned to Mr. Paramour and said, “And Imight have let him spank Empty if he had taken a kinder, gentler approach. Every time I suggested a less aggressive paddling, he said my duty was to be quiet, back him up and cheer when Empty yelped. The problem was never Empty.”

When mom finished, Mr. Paramour asked for my two cents. Laying on his couch, I said, “Mommy, I mean mom, is right; the problem is dad.” Then I launched into a long list of my problems over the years, and tied each one back to something dad said or did a long time ago.

Mr. Paramour interrupted me in the middle of one story and said, “Thank you, Empty. I think I’ve heard enough. What’s going on here is a family-sized edible complex. Fuller, you’re jealous of the doting Empty receives from his mother. China, you’re an enabler. Empty, you’re still growing. I suggest we continue these sessions. We have much work to accomplish, but we can make progress this week. China, practice saying ‘No.’ Stop the enabling! Fuller, you need to step back, count to ten and breathe. Empty, I suggest you take on a new responsibility. Why don’t you help your parents with dinner? I’d like all of you to keep a journal and report back to me next week.”

We were happy when we went home, but it didn’t last long. Mom got up at midnight and started to prepare a meal for me. When she dropped a pot, dad woke up and came in to ask what mom was doing. She reminded him that I had an edible complex. I added that I was growing and that I needed to help them eat dinner. Dad said that I had an oedipal complex, not an edible complex. Then, he told mom to look up oedipal in the dictionary. She said, “No, I’m finished enabling you. Fuller.”

Expresso

Empty Plate's car crash
©Deyangeorgiev
Dreams.com|Fotolia

One day while my old man was snoozing, I borrowed his keys, took his car out for a spin and drove to Walmart. I also took his credit card, and used it to buy a jug of water, ground coffee and a Road Warrior expresso machine. When I got back to the car, I opened the box, tossed the instructions and slapped the parts together until the machine looked sort of like the picture on the box.


While I was driving home on the Simpleton Expressway, I leaned down to grab the jug of water. When I came back up, I had to slam the brakes and swerve to avoid hitting the idiot who stopped in front of me. I shot him a dirty look while I poured the water into my expresso machine. It overflowed. After I got going again, I opened the coffee, poured it into the machine and mashed the "Start" button. The burpolator hissed at me. It sure didn't sound like any burpolator I remember. Then, a light turned on and said, “Enjoy your beverage.”

That’s when I remembered that the box said "Cup sold separately." The only way I could drink my beverage was to pick up the machine, cock my head back, press the lever and suck the nozzle. Just as I tried that, I jolted forward and splashed hot expresso all over my shirt. The knucklehead two cars ahead stopped for a duck!

When the man in the Smokey the Bear hat arrived, I was shaken, but I explained that the accident wasn't my fault. To add insult to injury, Daffy Duck looked me straight in the eye and quacked me to scorn as he waddled from the scene of the accident to Lake Aflack.


Instead of arresting Duck Dodgers, Smokey the Bear wrote ME a ticket and called a wrecker, who took me to an auto repair shop along with dad's car. The shop owner gave me an estimate, but I told him I didn't want to hear numbers. I just wanted dad's car back. When he asked about my insurance, I ducked out, found a payphone and called home collect. Dad didn't accept my first call; mom made him take the second.

Before asking me how I was, dad wanted to know what had happened to his car. I asked if I could speak to mom. As if she knew I was in pain, mom asked if I was hurt. I explained that I had bought an expresso machine for their car, and was testing it when some hammerhead slammed on his brakes for a duck. Through her tears, I heard her tell dad I had been in a traumatic accident. I heard dad say I was putting on the water works, and mom ripped into him for the next five minutes.

When mom came back to the horn, she said a taxi would  pick me up, and that she'd have a hot supper waiting for me when I got home.