Have you failed to take note of my breeding, my station? My top hat is cocked at a superior angle. My cape hangs off my shoulderless frame in such a way as to convey the pride of my lineage. My walking stick—purchased from the finest bird haberdasher on the eastern seaboard—is worth more than your great aunt Myrtle's trousseau.
That you should partake of me. Why, it strains propriety.
I shall wander these forlorn streets in search of the man who deserves this bounty. Today is my day, and I will have satisfaction.
Until then, good day!
(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral. You should know the good doctor has a knack for digging up turkey-themed horrors. "Enjoy" these posts about Spammy, Manny's, and the Turkey Hooker.)
Addendum: Visit with the ghosts of Thanksgivings past: 2010, 2009, 2008, and 2007.
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