I see you, gazing past me at the gravy boat, with that helpless, infantile expression on your face. You look like a dumb tourist in your own home, with your man-breasts and open-mouthed gluttony. Where’s your fanny-pack, Paul? News flash: this isn’t the line for the men’s restroom at SeaWorld, you sweaty man-hog. You don’t think your family is at all embarrassed by your little display of cholesterol dependency? Aunt Susan will pass you the gravy in due time, so settle down, you sasquatch. You know what you need right now? A little bit of me: canned cranberry. And I’ll let you in on a secret, Paul. I want to be inside you, too.
What’s not to love about me? Asparagus makes your piss stink? A novelty at best. Squash is healthy? That’s cute. I make everything go down easier, and I promise you it’s worth the ride. And what the hell is so special about a turkey, anyway? They just run around and scream at each other all day. You know that kid in your third grade class who wore a helmet and sat by himself in a chair specially designed not to tip over? The kid who laid down a fat dump in the urinal on tie-dye shirt day? He probably eats turkey. Eats it, and likes it.
Not that you’d ever notice, but I’ve been strained and sterilized in a factory, and sealed in a can to be enjoyed at any time. I have a rich array of vitamins and nutrients, Paul. No, don’t drool into the mashed potatoes, you beautiful son of a bitch. Grab that spoon between your mammoth fingers and help yourself to some cranberry goodness. You won’t regret it.
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