The truth about stuffing

The truth about stuffing

Kale’s stomach aches at the thought of the traditional dish.

Kale Walch, Online Reviews Editor

Once a year, when the American people find it necessary to give thanks, cooked turkeys grace the tables of the common household. For many years, turkeys were hollow, devoid of meat and purpose. One day, a man felt the conviction to fill the empty avian with stuff, which after time, was cleverly named: stuffing.

But what is stuffing? Where is this “stuff” harvested? These burning questions ate away at me until I ventured to investigate the sinister substance.

Following a stuffing delivery truck to the shipping depot, I found a cargo plane unloading crates of stuff to blank faced workers on the ground. Grabbing my whip, hat, and satchel, I snuck into the back of the plane.

The plane landed 14 hours later in what I assumed was a secret island base in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. I saw a sign that read: “Welcome to Stuffington, Where Anything is Possible.” “Yeah right, I still couldn’t get a job here,” I mumbled to myself.

There seemed to be a large number of small, bipedal mammalian creatures resembling teddy bears inhabiting the island. They were friendly, and gave me small fruits to greet me. It seemed that they wanted me to help them. They led me to the stuff factory.

Creeping past the guard post with stereotypical sleeping guards, I infiltrated my way into the stuff production facility. A sign above the back door read: “STUFFINGTON HARVESTING FACILITY.”

What I beheld inside, I still do not believe.

The small creatures were being lined up on a conveyor belt, and systematically cut open. Inside the stuffington creatures was pure, undefiled stuffing. My stuffington comrades began to cry, seeing their brothers slain so cruelly.

They said they wanted a revolution. Well, you know, we all want to change the world.

I taught the Stuffingtons how to make weapons out of sea shells and coconut husks. Somehow, however, they knew how to make explosives, so we just used those instead.

My brigade and I stormed the front door of the factory, and eliminated several Tangos. We later scratched off a few Waltzes and Foxtrots as well.

A few Stuffingtons placed some C-4 on the large processing tank, so we sprinted out of the building. Just as the explosives detonated, we dove forward in dramatic fashion.

At the cost of many a brave Stuffington, our efforts severely crippled stuffing production in the States.

If, by some hapenstance, you do eat stuffing, you may hear a small, muffled knock at your door. It’s a Stuffington. Don’t open it.