(A vintage Fred Miller column published Dec. 27, 1991)
Dear Mr. Miller,
My Uncle Billy told me that the little pointy thing sticking in the roast turkey is a poison dart, but when I told my friends at school they made fun of me and said there’s no such thing.
I asked my daddy, George, and he said to ask you, and you would reply in your column. He said if something is printed in the newspaper it must be so.
Tell me the truth, Mr. Miller: are poison turkey darts real?
Virginia Steinbrenner
Age 8
Dear Virginia,
We live in an age in which the wondrous mysteries of life have been squeezed out of it like a kid squeezes out the insides of a Twinkie. Sure, you find out what’s in it, but who wants to eat it after that?
The President wins the world but stands to lose his own country as the economy falls apart. A baseball legend, a basketball superstar and a child matinee star all turn out to have feet of clay. We are compelled to teach our children that death may lurk in an intimate embrace. Even magical Christmas is transformed into an orgy of consumer spending.
THANK GOODNESS we still have a poison dart sticking in the Christmas turkey to remind us of Blowgun Bill and his wild turkey hunts. Without Bill, where would be adventure? Most important, who would provide turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas?
You see, Virginia, every fall Blowgun Bill and his faithful Indian companions hunt the wild turkey flocks of the Eastern woodlands. Bill knows exactly where to hide as the Indians fan out, beating drums and shouting to drive the wily turkeys toward him.
Pfffft! Pfffft! Pfffft!
One by one the turkeys fall over with a poison dart in their breasts, with nary a sound but their final gasping breaths and the sound of Bill’s deadly missiles zipping through the air.
Tales of Bill’s many exploits may sound incredible, but I swear they are true. There was the time a rogue bull turkey charged a fallen Indian. Bill put a poison dart in its breast at 200 yards. The big tom skidded in the dust, dead as a stone, stopping inches from the terrified man’s face.
Who can forget the story of Bill’s hand-to-beak battle with the fearsome King of the Turkeys, a gobbler that stood 10 feet tall and ate bird dogs for breakfast? Bill swore that if he lost, he would give up turkey hunting forever.
After a desperate struggle that lasted four days, leveled a mountain and drained a lake, Bill vanquished the King of the Turkeys, then plucked him, stuffed him with three bushels of wild rice dressing, roasted him in a volcano and fed him to a regiment of Marines.
YOUR LITTLE FRIENDS may have told you it would be impossible for one hunter to provide enough turkeys for everyone in America. Their parents probably told them turkeys are a product, like pasta or Grape Nuts, and that they come from farms and processing plants.
Virginia, there are many things in life that we cannot comprehend, such as the size of the federal deficit and the popularity of Madonna, yet we know they exist. You can’t hold the wind in your hands or put love in a bottle, but your heart tells you they are real. Why is it difficult to believe in Blowgun Bill and poison turkey darts?
I’ll tell you a secret about Bill. He isn’t just a great hunter, he’s the best and smartest turkey hunter that ever lived. He knows if he used a shotgun, like every other turkey hunter, all the turkeys would scatter at the first shot. The only pffft! of a blowgun dart a turkey hears is the one that gets him.
AT THE END of each hunt, dead turkeys are stacked at Bill’s feet like cordwood. His faithful Indians and their families pluck and clean the turkeys, and put them on a plane to the North Pole, where they are laid out on icebergs until frozen solid and can be shipped to all the supermarkets in America.
Yes, Virginia, as surely as the recession is over and Elvis is still alive, poison turkey darts are real. The next time you see your school chums, have in your pocket the one from the turkey your mom cooked for Christmas. Show them the little plunger that injects the poison, and explain how it pops up when the poison is all cooked away.
Tell them about Blowgun Bill and his battle with the King of the Turkeys, and Bill’s great hunts every fall. Even if they aren’t convinced, don’t let their narrow minds and small hearts keep you from believing.
If ever there comes a time when the children of America stop believing in Blowgun Bill and his poison turkey darts, then Bill will lay down and die of sorrow, and we’ll all have to eat hot dogs for Christmas dinner.
Yes, Virginia, poison turkey darts are real, and I hope they will always remain so.
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