The True Story of Thanksgiving, the Pilgrims, and Who ate all the Turkey

History is important.

If you don't know it, you'll probably repeat it. 

Kids these days are lazy and don't know their history. At least that's what my doctor told me during one of my last $378 dollar visits while he tried to convince me to show some of his favorite BBC history shows at the TV station I work for.

So for the literally hundreds of people out there that have been waiting, here is the true ungarnished, non embellished story of how we really got the very first Thanksgiving. 

Don't repeat it.

Thousands of years ago in Spain lived a man who liked nothing better than a good long trip to China. But his wife complained it was too long and, “You're so smart anyway why don'tcha find a quicker way or find a different wife to drag along.”

He agreed and in no time he and his three ships, The Nino the Pinto and the Santa Mario, that he borrowed from the Spanish Navy, were out on the open sea, sailing and singing gayly. But as the years wore on the singing grew less and less gay till it stopped completely. The men on board were just about to dump the guy overboard when the shout was heard, “Land ho!”

As the crew elbowed their way forward to their first glimpse of China they were surprised to not see the bustling skyscrapers of Beijing, and they grumbled in disgust as you might imagine. “India!” The man declared! “We've discovered a new route to India!”

As the crew threw up their hands with joy and began shouts of “Yay!” they were suddenly attacked from behind by giant Sea Beasts of a particularly veracious temperament. In seconds the crew, the three ships, everything in fact besides the left overs were completely devoured. The man known as Columbus miraculously survived, and so with his plank of wood as flotation, he began the swim back to his portage in Spain.

The next morning, he washed up on a famous Spanish beach whose name and location is lost to history but preserved in children's nursery rhyme. What we do know however is that the ship owners in Spain, a.k.a. Royalty, were completely unwilling to give Columbus any more boats to go sink on the far away shores of India. They also had some ridiculous notion that he should pay for them. So to appease them he gave them Mexico. When they asked were that was, he pointed to southern India. With dreams of a popular new cuisine and glorious battles against coon-skin capped individuals in churches, they graciously excepted and that's how we got burritos. But how did we come to Thanksgiving?

England,

 Columbus' next choice for boats happened to have just what he was looking for. A man had a notice out that he had a ship full of people who were being kicked out of England for wearing their belts on their hats, and had no place to go but the open ocean since France refused sanctuary. This man, Ted Plymoth was contacted by Columbus shortly after about maybe possibly letting him guide the social outcasts along his new route to India. Ted thought that sounded alright since anyone traveling to a new land from England was automatically allowed to name it after himself, so was the exploration bonanza of the time.

So with glorious thoughts of a new Continent of Plymoth, the pilgrims and Mr. Columbus set out on the Mayflower which was latin for wood that floats or something like that, to find a new home far across the sea.

On the way there they ran out of food so they had to kill mermaids to survive. Finally they sighted land, but it was unlike any land they'd seen in England. 

Just as Christopher Columbus was about to tell the amazed pilgrims that they should watch out and keep their heads low because this was about where his men were attacked before, a giant sea beast rose up out of the water and snatched him by the head,

 and that was the end of the greatest man that ever lived. 

But the pilgrims acted fast. They got out their machine guns and sawed that sea beast into little tiny chunks. That attracted a lot of Seaguls which was a good thing because they helped hide the boat. The Pilgrims looked back out at the land before them unlike any land they'd ever seen before.

Giant long necked lizard things were wandering around on the beach chasing the natives and eating them. The Pilgrims thought it might be a good idea to turn around and go back to England but they couldn't because the tide was going out and they were stuck on a big rock. 

Ted Plymouth decided to name it after himself. So everybody decided rather than stay on the stupid boat and wait for another Plymouth beast to come around and eat them like the one that got Columbus they'd lower the Plymouth boats and go ashore to see what this new land of Plymouth had to offer.

 Unfortunately for Ted, he fell on his way down to one of the Plymouth boats and drowned so they decided to name the land after his brothers Amer and Ica. As soon as they hit the shore a pack of velociraptors attacked the group dragging off several screaming individuals. 

While this was happening a guy named John Smith aka our hero decided to chase after them and save the screaming people, but he soon lost them in the thick jungle. Over the sound of screaming he heard the beautiful sound of a girl singing about leaves and air blowing around. He soon found her and fell in love and was never seen again.

The remaining pilgrims mustered their courage and started a fort right there on the beach. As they busied themselves shooting anything that moved the natives watched from the forest forming their own opinions. The most popular conclusion was that these strange looking people were white devils from heck that wanted to kill everything and take the land to build K-Marts and Piggly Wigglies.

 But one man named Squanto saw something good in these white devils and perhaps if they could just make friends with them, they could use the new pilgrim weapons to defeat the reptilian beasts and make the land safe again for children and wild flowers.

 Most of the elders called him a long haired hippie till he demonstrated the superior firepower of the pilgrims by rushing a heard of apatosauruses down onto the beach in direct firing range of the new Jamestown Colony mortars.

When the smoke cleared and hunks of meat stopped falling from the sky. The Native American's and the pilgrims decided they should stop the senseless violence between themselves and join with each other temporarily to defeat the dinosaur scum infesting the island of America. 

So they did.

They killed off every last dinosaur on the continent. To celebrate they cooked up all the lizard pieces and had a party where they sat outside at the end of November to eat because neither group wanted to invite the other group over to their houses for the dinner. It was pretty cold so this one really sappy pilgrim decided to go around the table and see what people were thankful for. And So was born the age old holiday of Thanksgiving.

And if you look closely today, you'll notice that on your thanksgiving table is the corpse of a bird flat on its back with its feet in the air, just like all the tyrannosaurs we had to fry back in the day a thousand years ago when we killed the dinosaurs.

We would like to add a disclaimer that this blog nor its subsidiaries endorse or condone any violence or maleficence toward dinosaurs be they herbivorous or otherwise disposed.

We like dinosaurs because they are special. 

'Twas Beauty Killed the Beast- or - how to kill monsters

Marsupials are a strange breed. They have fur like mammals and give birth to live young, but prematurely according to our standards. Marsupial's come with their very own baby bags with which to carry the prenatal young until such time as they decide to jump out and start fending for themselves. Of course the majority of their diversness resides on the far side of the world on and around the Continent/Country of Australia. That goes without even being said...

North and South America's fossil records indicate that we had our fair share of Marsupial diversity as well but at some point in history the ecosystem was inundated with mammals and the marsupials failed to compete for food and water and so died out.. All that remains of their furry baggy kind are a few squirrels I didn't know about and neither did your sixth grade science teacher, aaaannnnd- the North American Possum or Opossum depending on how old the book is. Unlike the bunny faced fully fuzzified kind of marsupials you find down under, these natives of forests, sheds, and local dumpsters resembles none other than the R.O.U.S.'s of Princess Bride fame. Rodents of unusual size. In other words: Giant Rats.

Yet unlike the giant rats of S. Morgenstern's classic tale, these dog sized creatures have more in common with reptiles than rats. Exchange those heavy incisors for a set of alligator teeth and the fuzzy hair you might expect for the mangy white snaggled hair of a swamp witch and you'll start to get an idea of what the North American Possum looks like.

Now dispensing with any further explanation- the story...

I know a young lady in Tennessee. She lives about 40 miles from Nashville on a small farm. Two nights ago she heard something outside her home. It was her chickens. A week or so ago she built a new coupe for the young hens she'd been raising this year. It so happened that a large ugly Possum had discovered the coupe and had decided to make it his own personal buffet.

This girl isn't very tall and isn't very wide, but what she lacks in stature she makes up for in what a famous southern lady calls being "fragile as coal trucks" or as I like to say "having a face like a dump truck.," but I digress.

Behind the back door of every home this girl's ever lived in sits an old aluminum baseball bat. As far back as she can remember its never been to a game, but two nights ago it played quite a different game. Armed with nothing but this bat, this young lady of which I speak ventured out into the yard gripped by a sensation only a disrupted grizzly bear commands when a tourist feeds her cub Tabasco sauce. There perched on her henly house loomed the dark figure of the biggest swamp gator rat you could ever imagine.

With a mighty heave she let that bat swing as hard as it'd go! A deafening "Ping" rang out across the farmyard followed by the thump of a heavy hairy body armed with four sharp sets of burly claws! Up came a mouth full of razor sharp teeth and a guttural hiss of deranged anger and hate!

There's nothin on this earth so awfully fierce as a possum that's just been distracted from a free meal! But before the beast could get its footing to leap at her she let fly with another hard overhander! This time the PING was accompanied by the crunch a skull makes when it starts to give way. But the Possum doesn't run so much on brain power as it does on raw hatred in the bloodstream and that was now running at a hundred and ten percent!

It snapped its crooked jaws and hissed its fierce black breath at her! But something deeper than a natural protective nature had taken over her otherwise gentile demeanor.. Her heavenly blue eyes now glistened black. Her breath came in heavy gusts like the ones from a bull that's about to charge. A bead of sweat ran down her cheek. Judgment day.

The Rat monster leaped towards her but was pummeled to the ground by an earth shattering shower of hard metallic clanks and crunches the likes of which you've never even nightmared about! The chickens huddled in stunned silence as the killer became the killed.

By the time she'd finished with it, there was more blood on her than on the carcass and the only bone left in tact was the wishbone although the buzzards made quick work of that yesterday. Rather than waste time with a Christian burial which would have been sacrilege anyway since beasts like that don't hail from above, she hauled what was left of it out to the highway where it could stand as a warning to all evil creatures and demons and maybe dissuade some of them from meeting a similar fate.

The bat is safe.

back behind the door

sitting in silence

waiting...

waiting for the time when it can once again strike a blow for justice!

Justice and a marsupial-free continent!

Black Boiled Bottom of a Witch's Black Brew (an excerpt found on file from early 2008)

Mr. Friedman walked quickly to his front office. The man was there waiting again. This was the sixth time this week he’d been late getting back from lunch. It was fun being an executive. He got his own reserved parking space, longer lunches, and more food. He was especially happy to be getting more food. His wife was enjoying more food as well. She’d always been big, but now she was enormous. The man in Friedman’s office was the company auditor.
“Aren’t you guys supposed to come like once a year or something?” He struggled to catch his breathe. It’d been getting harder each day to make the long walk from the elevator to the front office. He tugged at his collar. It seemed tighter today.
The Long thin man in the gray suit turned around. His face was drawn out in a permanently uninterested expression. He folded his hands behind his back and glared at Mr. Friedman. Behind his eyes a seething black hatred rolled and boiled like the black bottom of a witches black brew. He swallowed and the rage subsided leaving a residue of raw disdain. “It would be so if your departmental unit was in order,” he glanced down at Mr. Friedman’s belt where his shirt was coming out from the quick paced walk from the elevator. Friedman noticed and quickly began stuffing the shirt back in, but his belt had shrunk a little from the summer humidity or something so every time he stuffed, the shirt would come back out a little more. Didn’t he have longer shirts than this? The thin grey auditor scowled. “Mr. Friedman, this is not a dressing room.”
“I know” gasped Friedman as he sucked in with all his might, “It’s a place of business.” He huffed as he quickly stuffed the rest of his shirt in around his massive belly. Once safely in, he exhaled sealing the shirt safely behind his belt. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and held out his hand to greet the auditor. The black boiling hate was back.

The Turtle that Ate up Everybody

Wednesday, May 7, 2008 at 2:45am

Ted, a 36 year old bachelor and bank teller was enjoying his first day off in over five weeks by taking his pet turtle Chippy out for a walk. The sight of a thin man in jogging shorts toddling through the park behind a small turtle on a string is an uncommon sight on any day of the week, but on this particular Tuesday afternoon it was exactly what Dr. Silas P. Scrimshanks had been hoping for. He’d been sitting in the park for three days now waiting; waiting for some poor fool to happen by. Ted was too well qualified to miss.
“Excuse me.” Muttered the doctor as he stumbled past Ted dropping the contents of a large cardboard box he was carrying. Books, papers and scientific discourses spilled out onto the sidewalk nearly smashing Chippy. A look of horror graced Ted’s pasty cheeks.
“I’m terribly sorry. How clumsy of me.” Dr. Scrimshanks lifted a few papers uncovering the slightly dazed Chippy. “Hello, and who’s this might I ask.”
“Chippy!” Ted smiled relieved that his only friend in the world was still alive. “He’s a turtle.”
“Yes.” Smiled the doctor with a hint of sinister glee only a passing blue bird happened to notice.
“He’ll be about six to seven months old now I should think.”
“Yes uh…he is- Hey how’d you-“
“I’m a scientist friend. It’s my business to know.” He smiled again and shook Ted’s limp hand. He looked around at the ground apologetically.
“Look at this, I’ve interrupted your afternoon and made a mess of a public thoroughfare! Please, would you be so kind as to help an old man collect his notes and papers?”
Ted quickly obliged and within a few moments the doctor was up off his knees and off again down the sidewalk and across the street. Ted sighed and turned to see what Chippy was up to. It was unlike him to stay still for so long. He nearly fainted as he realized why Chippy hadn’t been pulling at his string. There where Chippy had been only few moments before was an empty loop of string.
“Chippy!” Ted whirled around checking the sidewalk behind him.
“Chippy?!” He franticly checked the grass on either side of the path. No trace. Not even a foot print; although he wasn’t sure turtles could leave footprints in grass.
“CHIPPY!” he looked to the trees.


It had been a wonderfully informative day thought Julie as she walked home from school with her best friend Amber. It had been “Don’t Talk To Strangers Day”, and both girls carried booklets and stickers to remind them of what they’d learned. The back of the booklet featured illustrations of the most popular ways strangers try to engage children in conversation. Offering candy and breakfast cereals from minivans was mentioned but the most frightening by far was the one of a stranger in a park disguising himself as a man searching for his lost puppy. Both girls chattered nervously to each other with this one illustration burned freshly into their young impressionable preservationist minds. It was at this unfortunate moment that a man came crawling out of the bushes on his hands and knees combing the grass franticly with his fingers and babbling to himself. Both girls froze, equally alert at the danger they now faced. Aside from the lunatic Stranger’s startling behavior, his bare thighs reminded both girls of page three in their booklets which featured a man dressed similarly trying to coax a seven year old into conversation aboard a cruise liner. They realized they were already in phase two of an encounter with a stranger. The stranger upon seeing the girls quickly rose to his feet and approached.
“Have either of you seen a little turtle around here? I was taking him for a walk and he’s disappeared. I can’t find him anywhere!” Alarm bells sounded deafeningly in both girls heads.
“He’s about this big.” He raised his hands to show how big the fictional lost pet was. Julie recognized phase three and opened her mouth to scream, but fear had gripped her throat so tightly nothing came out. Like in a nightmare she struggled to scream. She had to scream. The booklet said to. Her head was swimming. She couldn’t breathe!
“Are you alright?” Asked the stranger as he stepped forward pretending concern. Amber’s scream rang out true and clear like an air raid siren.


Ted jumped. His body became a jumble of adrenaline and nerves. He knew that whatever was behind him was either very big or very dangerous or both. What else could make a little girl scream like that? He didn’t wait to find out. He tried to run from whatever must have been pursuing him but something got in the way and hit him hard in the stomach. It was the screaming girl’s head. He fell down hard knocking his face against the pavement. Now the other one was screaming too.


Hanging from a nearby telephone poll Angel Fuentes, a City Power employee, heard the frantic screams and turned just in time to see the pedophile attacker rush the two little girls. He was a thin pale man in ridiculously short shorts obviously driven to his perversion by the lack of female attention in his life, but this wasn’t a time to analyze. Angel was particularly fond of analyzing the little people that passed back and forth beneath him as he worked, but as was mentioned before this was not one of those times. This was a time for action.
Angel knew just what to do. He’d rehearsed it for several months now hoping an opportunity like this one would happen. He smiled a satisfied grin as he pulled a long heavy wrench from a loop on his belt. The metal felt cold and solid in his fist. As if in slow motion, the action played out just as it had a thousand times in his mind. He pulled his arm back and with a steely eyed stare, targeted the perpetrator like a hawk fixed on his prey. Everything went still for Angel. Time had come to a screeching halt. All that existed was the cold balanced steel in his fist, and the head of a man down there on the ground; a perverted sick man trying to hurt children, and then Angel was ready, A satisfied whisper escaped his lips. “You’re already dead.”




“This is Martha Shapiro reporting live from Franklin Memorial Park where earlier today a man tried to molest two six year old girls returning from school when he was stopped by a literal guardian angel.”
Ted’s bruised and confused mug shot was replaced on the flickering screen by a live video feed of an interview with Angel Fuentes. The reporter’s microphone was stuck into his face in time to hear him say, “When I saw that guy tackling those little girls, I knew somebody needed to stop him… so I did.”
“and it was quite the throw!” remarked the smiling reporter as the image changed to the shaky home video footage of a grandmother out videotaping pigeons that day. The abrupt swish pan came just in time to capture Angel swinging his arm and the gleaming wrench flying gracefully through the air. Then there was the lovely jolt the camera made when the wrench made contact with the would-be child molester’s face. They replayed it several times as the reporter praised the accuracy and distance of Angel’s heroic throw. “I used to play baseball in School.” beamed the City Power employee.
“Fotsworth! Turn that off and come help me with the next batch of serum!”
Fotsworth, like most laboratory assistants was short, ugly, and remarkably dimwitted. How he came to work with Dr. Scrimshanks was a long complicated story that boiled down to the fact that if Dr. Scrimshanks was going to finally do what he’d dreamed of his whole life, then he needed an assistant with enough intelligence to follow instructions, but not ask moral questions or consider personal danger.
“It’s too big for this bowl.”
“That’s why we have larger bowls for subsequent batches.”
“Oh.” Replied Fotsworth as he wondered to himself what subsequent meant. He figured it probably had something to do with the subway.
“Now, place our friend in the bowl please.” Dr. Scrimshanks ventilator mask reminded Fotsworth of the alien invasion comic book he hadn’t gotten around to reading yet because he wasn’t used to staying overnight in the laboratory yet and was too scared to look at it. As he put the foot long turtle into the larger bowl he wondered why he didn’t have a mask too.
“I still think we should have done the jellyfish.”
Silas Scrimshanks sat silently concentrating on his display of gauges and graphs.
“It could sting people.”
“Including us you diptherious imbecile. A jellyfish aside from being extremely messy lacks two very important qualifications. Fotsworth waited but the doctor wasn’t forthcoming with any explanation. He lowered the hose into the bowl. Fotwsorth still waited.
“Switch on the pump and release valves three and six please.” Fotsworth flipped a switch and turned to twist the corresponding knobs. The doctor lowered a dark set of goggles over his eyes as glowing green radioactive plasma flowed down into a special chamber in his machine. The room glowed green for a moment. Then the doctor closed the chamber. Tightened a valve and flipped another switch. As a low hum reverberated through the laboratory he removed the goggles and ventilator and continued.
“First, a jellyfish cannot survive out of water. Therefore we would find ourselves with a lot of useless rash generating jelly and a horrible stink.”
It took a moment for Fotsworth to realize the doctor was back to giving his qualifications.
“And second, even if a jellyfish could survive out of water it lacks any form of locomotion.”
Fotsworth tried to nod in agreement, but he was having trouble processing that last bit.
“Legs Fotsworth. It hasn’t got any legs.”
“It’s got tentacles.”
The doctor stood and leaned over the experiment.
“Yes it has.” His voice was soft and far away. His eyes flickered with a wicked gleam.
“Fotsworth… I think its time for something bigger.”