Americans have this quaint little custom (Canadian readers take note) of watching the Commander-in-Chief give an official pardon to one privileged turkey every year just before Thanksgiving (even if his name is Marc Rich and he’s a convicted felon on the lam…….but I digress). We’ve probably all seen the photo-op.
But if we turn our gaze North To Alaska, we see that the state’s chief executive has a different idea, and helps her state to celebrate the harmonious dining experience of the Pilgrim Fathers with their Aboriginal Neighbors by sentencing all the local turkeys to the Chair.
Here’s the video, of the extraordinary Sarah Palin holding her cuppa joe and chatting with some newshound about the coming holiday while behind her another ordinary Joe, khaki work pants covered in blood’n’guts, is nonchalantly putting turkey-birds to death in the Cone of Terror – holding them until their jugulars are tapped out, and staring at the TV camera with the big placid “Hi Mom” smile.
The Huffington Post goes postal. [hat-tip Ann Althouse, via Instapundit]
“Gruesome” they said. God help me -- I love it.
NEWSFLASH to the gliberal blue-state upper crustaceans who don’t really want to know the details as to how their coq au vin wound up snuggling into its bed of arugula and truffles: You are the new Puritans.
Once upon a time the ruling elites of the Anglosphere claimed to be excessively fond of their darling children, but wouldn’t permit in polite company any syllable to be uttered referencing how those children came to be, er, found in the cabbage patch. Piano legs were draped in paisley scarves, and we spoke in hushed tones of women in “confinement”.
Today’s Puritans are the glittering cocktail set from Georgetown to Beacon Hill to Westwood and Malibu, and they tut at the coarseness of Alaska’s governor, and gasp at her indifference to the poultry holocaust behind her. Cheeeez.
Like I said – NEWSFLASH –
Behind every breast of duck that arrives next to your linen napkin, just southwest of your pinot noir and Evian water glasses, wafting its aroma of sherry and pomegranate confit up towards your surgically-enhanced nasal passages, there is some guy in blood-spattered coveralls who had to stop the quack with a hatchet whack.
He does it day in and day out, with a contented visage, and with more understanding of the individuality of that duck – its markings, its behaviour, its cycle of life – than any dues-paying PETA member within a hundred miles of your private bistro corner has for his/her pampered cockapoo.
Deal with it. Gobble gobble.