The Dirty Diaper

It is almost the end of the Thanksgiving weekend. I am thankful that I spent a warm and wonderful holiday with my family and friends. I am thankful that once again I tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to alter the ratio of human-to-turkey DNA in my body, the only result being a darn good nap. I am thankful that I did not allow one piece of apple pie to get away from me.

And I am thankful that all the columnists of the world can put their annual “turkey” awards to bed for another year.

It seems that you just don’t have true street cred unless you write an entire article picking on all the people you picked on the previous 10 months then rank them to find the biggest idiot out of them. And there is no shortage of categories. From the biggest professional athlete turkey to the biggest political turkey to the biggest celebrity turkey to the biggest evangelical-leader-turned-gay-drug-user turkey, there’s a category for all religions. Some writers, whose prose helps me start fires in my fireplace during Minnesota’s nine cold months, may even get top billing in their section, as if the entire reading world waits with baited breath to see who was picked this year!

And all these writers suddenly exercise their funny bone. I mean, really, what is funnier that dredging up and writing about lousy people and lousy events? I mean, since we all spend the rest of the year bad-writing everyone, I can’t think of anything more hilarious except, kicking a brick wall with my bare feet.

I guess I will not be a complete and accepted writer until I find someone or something to put on a pedestal and affix a “turkey” label. So here goes: My final first annual Turkey Of The Year Award goes to every single writer who writes “Turkey Of The Year Award” articles. I read at least 10 articles where a writer, drunk with top-billing power, spent several paragraphs writing about someone who is tops on the list of stupidity this year.

But wait, there’s more. Then I get a top x list of the runner-ups(where x equals the number or people the writer believes belong in this category), those who were real turkeys, but not truly top-turkey material. And every article closes with some profound statement that encompasses the entire point, wraps a little bow around it and shoves it in a Ziploc bag for all to have sandwiches for the next seven weeks. Coincidentally, x also equal the number of times the writer makes a futile attempt to be funny.

Thanks for the giving, article-writer, but I’ll have my turkey on the table next to the stuffing. Now, return to your back page and write about stuff that fills back pages, like obituaries and cars for sale and things.