The Turkey Pardon

Each year, a turkey is delivered to the White House for a Presidential pardon, after which the lucky turkey will live a life of indolence on a farm or petting zoo. But can this popular ritual survive the current tumultuous atmosphere? This year’s designee, a 55 pound, broad-breasted tom named Jive, has grave concerns.

The several hundred other turkeys penned in around him on the feedlot tried to cheer him up. “Why the long beak?” they asked.

“It’s a mockery of the democratic process!” the lucky turkey announced. “Why should President Trump decide whether to pardon me? A decision of this importance – particularly of importance to me – should be left to the American people. Becoming a pardoned turkey is a lifetime appointment – my lifetime. It would be wrong to let a president decide whether to pardon a turkey this late into his term! We should wait until a new President takes office and let him decide whether to pardon me. Let the people vote, I say. In fact, the people have voted, which makes my point, doesn’t it? The people have rejected Trump as a President, so why should we trust him to pardon me? It would be a gross violation of a cherished political tradition.”

“But what about precedent?” some of the older turkeys argued. “Daddy Bush pardoned a turkey in 1992, even though he’d already lost an election to Bill Clinton. The same for Clinton with W. And Obama pardoned a turkey after Trump had been elected weeks before. The President’s elected for four years, not three years, so he ought to pardon four turkeys, not three,” they argued.

“Yeah, yeah,” the turkey interrupted testily. “But those situations were completely dissimilar. The White House was controlled by one party and the Senate by another when those turkeys were pardoned. Now they’re controlled by the same party, and that makes it a totally different situation.”

The other turkeys were confused by this reasoning “What does that have to do with anything? Who cares if –"

“I know, I know,” the lucky turkey cut them off with some embarrassment. “It’s just an argument I’m trying out. I heard Mitch McConnell say it, and he’s obviously got some turkey in him, so I thought, who cares if It doesn’t make any sense? I’m a desperate bird.”

The other turkeys tried to soothe the lucky turkey’s negative attitude. “Come on, man. You’re going to the White House and Trump is going to pardon you. It’s a piece of cake.”

“The hell it is,” the lucky turkey said irately. “You think Trump is going to pardon me? Do I look like Joe Arpaio to you? Do you expect Kim Kardashian to catch her husband in a butterfly net and go to the White House to plead my case for me, like I was some kind of drug dealer?” The lucky turkey stared into the distance as if having a thought. “Maybe if I had the goods on Trump, like Roger Stone did...” But the lucky turkey quickly recognized the unworkability of this plan. “Nah. Face it, man. I’m doomed.”

The other turkeys tried to reason with him. “This is just a feel good story for whoever is doing the pardoning, an easy PR win,” a savvy turkey argued.

“Yeah, sure,” the turkey snorted. “It’s as easy as condemning white supremacists. Trump’s going to look at me and think ‘This turkey’s worth hundreds of dollars, and once the IRS disallows my bogus tax refund and the banks want their $400 million back, I’ll be broke. Why should I give the turkey away?’ Oh, sure, first he’ll put me in a room at the Trump International on the government’s tab, I’ll give you that. But then, Trump’s old lady will look at me and say, ‘Why should we give turkey away? Let’s eat it!’ And then his sons will set me loose on the South Lawn so they can hunt me with bows and arrows. I’m in a dark place, man.”

“But the Presidential turkey pardon is a treasured American tradition,” the other turkeys argued. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Opposing foreign intervention in our elections was an American tradition. So was having empathy for people with a highly contagious disease. You think I’m going to get a better result than the right to vote or the victims of a plague?” The lucky turkey shook his head dejectedly. “I am so screwed.”

The other turkeys continued to accentuate the positive. “You’re going to end up on a farm so kids can pet you. You’re set for life.”

“Big whoop -- how long is that?” the lucky turkey groused. “Look at me. I can barely carry my own weight across the feedlot. I’m shot up with hormones that leave me vulnerable to every disease known to birds, and if I’m not slaughtered for dinner I’ll be ground up for animal feed. And now the good news is that a bunch of obnoxious toddlers can poke me through a fence until I die? Spare me.”

Sure enough, at that moment, the foreman walked over, threw the lucky into a cage, put the cage in the back of the truck, drove to Washington, D.C., and – to be fair, as the lucky turkey had predicted -- got a suite for them at the Trump International on Pennsylvania Avenue. The turkey had a drink from the minibar and contemplated his situation, when a strategy suddenly came to him.

Could it work? It was his only chance.

The next morning he was brought to the Rose Garden and placed before the President. A swarm of photographers’ shutters sounded like a steroidal cicada infestation. Those White House staffers who were not yet infected smiled masklessly. Those staffers who were infected smiled masklessly as well. The President came out to where the lucky turkey was positioned and posed with it, flashing his signature thumbs up. And when he was about to read his remarks, the lucky turkey grabbed the microphone from him and announced to the crowd,

“I hereby pardon the President of the United States.”

The camera clicked and whirred, the President smiled, and the tradition of pardoning a turkey on Thanksgiving was maintained, even in these turbulent times.