The Spirit of Thanksgiving
Many of you (read: zero) have asked how Simpson/Hemstead spends their thanksgiving. Well, thanksgiving means a lot of different things to a lot of different people.
Some of you out there think of Thanksgiving as a time to make hogs of yourselves at the dinner table.
Some of you think of Thanksgiving as a time to reflect on the white colonist’s poor treatment of the natives, who helped them survive their first arduous winter in a new land.
And then some of you think of Thanksgiving as a time to push a vegetarian agenda on your friends and loved ones and anyone who will listen to you talk about the slaughter of turkeys.
Some of you think of Thanksgiving as a chance to stuff a small bird into a larger bird, then stuff that bird into an even larger bird, and then stuff that bird into a turkey, and then stuff that turkey into a pig and roast it until it’s relatively salmonella free.
These people are geniuses. Bacon-wrapping a matryoshka doll of fowl. These people vote Simpson/Hemstead. Whoever figures out how to stuff that into a cow, and that cow into an elephant, and that elephant into a grey whale will become our Secretary of Commerce.
And then there’s this kid. We’ll just call him Billy Mahoney. What does Thanksgiving mean to Billy Mahoney? Thanksgiving is about the turkey to L’il Bill, but we’re not talking about your Butterball 22 pound Tom here. No, Billy’s vision of thanksgiving is a little more extreme…
Billy has it in his head that in the olden times, around the era of Happy Days given the outfit on our little hero, that the first Thanksgiving occurred when a young chap in the woods was confronted by a turkey of jurassic proportions, possessing a psychotic blood thirst. Fortunately this chap, whom we shall call “Potsie” was traveling with his gun belt on, as everyone did in the old west of the ’50s. Despite the fact that Potsie had no hands, he leveled his brown semi-auto at the oncoming zombie-bird and opened fire.
The feathered leviathan took two rounds to roughly the crop, but the mighty fowl stumbled forward, more enraged than wounded, stretched out his wings and willed another inch out of his neck as the noble beast fought no longer for a simple meal, but for his very life.
The way Billy has captured the almost pressure-sprayer volume of blood from the inflamed neck wound is almost hypnotic in it’s gore, and the keen eye notices only one geyser of blood suggesting that even with no hands, and seemingly with only the sheer force of determination, Potsie is clustering his shots tightly.
I don’t think a more epic battle has ever been captured on paper and crayon. How does this battle end? The artist seemingly leaves that up to the imagination of the viewer, but notice the little black dot just in front of the monster’s face. I think the artist is using a subtlety to suggest that Potsie, first settler of America and founder of Thanksgiving, won this epic battle of man versus nature.
But even with that being said, this piece leaves the viewer with a myriad of questions such as; what happened to the giant turkeys of the old west pilgrim ’50’s? What does this have to do with Native Americans? And probably most importantly, where the fuck are Potsie’s hands?
It seems there’s more story here that Billy either refuses to divulge or is waiting until some time in the future to reveal. In the mean time, it’s safe to say that his life will take one of three paths:
Or secretary of defense for Simpson/Hemstead.
I don’t know which path he’ll take, but all I know is I can’t wait to see what the fuck his Christmas looks like.