And now we come to it at last. The use to which suicide food was born to be put: the pacification of children’s fears. If the wee ones can be led to overcome their suspicions that adults are perpetrating a grisly fraud upon them, all will be well. The status quo—the very State—will be safe. Thus, the “educational” materials put out by Alberta (Canada) Turkey Producers. Here, in page after page of lullaby, is the soma of the carnivore class. Read, kiddies, read! The turkeys are counting on you to deliver them! Every forkful snaps another link in their chains!
Why, just look at this happy Tom! Here he is, lifting the veil, parting the curtain to reveal not the inner workings of the necropolis, but the good people behind the propaganda. Cheerfully, he lends his support, proud to be affiliated with such caring turkey “producers” as these. We see—how could we not?—that he is being used. His smile, his jolly way—his very presence—are ATP’s method of moral suasion. How else to explain the (front and reverse) art on this bookmark?
Yes, yes, the joys of reading are many. Perhaps the turkey should take the time to read the reverse of the very bookmark on which he appears. Do you think he would agree that spicy turkey tacos are, indeed, the “perfect party food”? Could he be that far gone? So seduced by those south-of-the-border spices? Does he have a pound of flesh (500g) to spare?
Judging by this "mariachi" illustration, it appears he would be willing to serve as cheerleader to the whole enterprise. “Turkey entrees with a Mexican theme? Hand me my sombrero!” Tom! Please! Your dignity! You came this close to being the symbol of a great nation, and now… this?
(See Exhibits 5 and 6, below)
His identification with the oppressor is complete. Dressing up as a pigrim—that archetypal turkey-killer—he smiles through the shame that has eaten away his soul. When the bespectacled boy recites the litany of Native American invention, vis-à-vis their thorough exploitation of the turkey carcass, Tom just smiles. Does anything rattle this bird?
The last nail in Tom’s coffin:
This is beyond using his meat and the meat of his kin, or using his feathers, quills, and spurs (whatever they are). This is sadism unadorned, the equivalent of a pilgrim pointing his blunderbuss at Tom’s feet and sneering: “Dance, turkey! Dance!” We’re making a game of our turkey finding his way not to luxury—not to a sports car or something—but to water, and, naturally, Tom is game.
Ha ha! Run, bird, run! Will he make it? Will he die of thirst? Aw, who cares? Stupid turkey.