Get that fucking camera out of my face asshole! You wouldn’t be smiling either if you got rail-roaded like I did on “Turkey Day”. More like “Same ‘Ol Dried Hippie Dog Food Bullshit Day” for the Scoutmeister. The day started with promise. There were a ton of people in grandma’s house for reasons which were at the time unbeknownst to me. I had no clue, maybe everyone had just been to the groomer and were gathered at the human park to show off the new cuts? Dad turns on the TV and boom, it hits me. Football on Thursday afternoon = Thanksgiving. So now I’m pretty fired up, running around the joint, shaking my ass, jumping on the younger cousins, getting a lot of attention from great grandpa. He thinks I’m the bomb because I’m pretty emotionally uncomplicated. He had just gotten a tongue-lashing from great grandma because he was “drinking too fast”. Like chill out great grandma. He is 80, fought the North Koreans and commie Chinese in the Korean Conflict, fathered 5 kids and worked for 40 years. If he wants to put on some liquor on Thanksgiving and pass out in the recliner, I think he’s earned it. Anyway I’m pretty fucking stoked because I’ve been requesting Turducken for the better part of 3 weeks now. I heard John Madden talking about it and using the diagram he drew up on TV, I Google-searched it and that shit is right in my wheel-house. You take a duck, stuff it into a chicken, then stuff both those pigs into a turkey: Yes please. I also saw in the Google side-bar that sweet potatoes are a common part of this Thanksgiving fad. Fucking BOOYAH! Anyone who knows the Scoutmeister knows one thing: He fucking crushes sweet potatoes. Although I’m particularly fond of the Farmer’s Market brand of dried sweet potato treat for dogs, I do not look a gift sweet potato in the mouth. So if they’re slathering those fuckers in butter and brown sugar, I’m still a taker. Everything goes quiet at one point and everyone looks at the floor and starts muttering some horse manure about a son and his holy ghost or father or something. I have no clue so I just bowed my own head and barked very quietly. If I know one thing its that when something is about to be awesome, if I get too fired up I’m usually in the hurt locker. The scent of turducken is strong and I’m not about to fuck this up. Everyone scratches their forehead, their stomach, and then each shoulder in rapid succession, perhaps due to fleas, and then queues up on the feast that sits on the counter. Fucking game time. I see the big boys towards the back of the queue and I start to worry that I’m going to get shut out if I play the polite card. So I nudge in between Mom and some lady behind her that I’ve never seen and throw two paws on the counter and start sniffing the goods. Apparently this is a faux pas because mom growls out some “Scout, down!” bullshit. Its cool, I’ll wait. Calm your shit down mom, not a life-or-death sitch here. To my astonishment that is followed by dad giving the dreaded “Scout, come!” command from the garage door vicinity. I peek around the corner and see that he has my food dish in his hand, and I know that all is well. He apparently filled it with turducken and sweet potato casserole while I wasn’t looking. So I follow him to my aunt Cora’s kennel in the garage. She is a big, brutal mastiff bitch. But a sweet gal who usually lets me do whatever the fuck I want. So I hops in the kennel, down comes the bowl of hot awesomeness, I stick my muzzle in it, and bam, pie right in Scout’s face. Same fucking dried dog food horseshit that I eat every goddamned day. Mom and dad buy it from the hippie dog food store because they are dumbass liberals and apparently like paying extra money for shit that sucks. Of all the kicks in balls that I’ve ever gotten, this might be the tops. I started screaming at dad as he walked toward the garage door, “Hey dad, go fuck yourself! I hope you choke on a turducken bone asshole!” Unfortunately all that seemed to come out of my muzzle was this really pussified high-pitched crying noise. In my mind I was chomped down on his jugular vein fucking growling like a pit bull dog octagon grand champion. But in reality I was crying like a little bitch.
Scout’s Thanksgiving started with such high hopes. But like the Native Americans before me (whom I also read about in the Google side bar on my Turducken search), all I got for my efforts was bent over and fucked. After mom let me out of the kennel I went straight to the front door to take a dump so that the first person to go to their car stepped right in it. But all I could muster was a really weak fart. My mother told me there’d be days like this.