A Very Beat Thanksgiving

There are a couple blog entries about Anderson already so there’s no need for an origin story.

He’s my buddy, a great artist and writer, and I’m proud to host this story.

A Thanksgiving nod to Beat Lit. and my book The Rotgut County Blues.

Thanks, Anderson,




A Very Beat



David Anderson


“Fuck the status quo,” said Frank as he sprung the lock on the cage. “We are getting the fuck out of here.”

Tony nodded, slipping out with Frank as they gave up their sacrificial servitude to “The Man”. In this case, “The Man” really was Man.  As in mankind.


A Turkey can’t drive, but they can hitch a ride. Frank and Tony had escaped death, and were now on the open road in America, searching for answers. And not a moment too soon, as a sign in a store window said THREE DAYS TIL THANKSGIVING. The fucking humans changed the date every year, just to confuse their fowl subserviants.

The two Turkeys had scored some LSD off the trucker they were riding with, he didn’t seem to notice them hiding amongst the drilling equipment he was taking from Maine to San Francisco. Frank and Tony had a free trip across America, and they intended to get really fucked up along the way.

“I’m fucking tripping balls, bro,” said Tony as he thought for a moment he was a roasted bird atop a serving plate, foaming-mouthed humans sharpening their knives, ready to eat him.

“You just got to get to a better place, man,” said Frank, lighting up a joint he had scored off a hooker we she bent down to pet him at a rest stop.

Tony thought about that, trying to center his energy, trying to maintain a positive chi. He thought about the time he had period sex with that hen, it was messy but good. She popped out some bastard eggs though, but luckily some sick farmer with a taste for turkey omelets solved that little child-support problem. Turkey periods didn’t work like normal periods.

Frank was on his side, scratching the wall with his feet as his eyes rolled around. “America is weird,” he said, over and over. He also mentioned the surreal art era and how it deeply changed him.

Tony trotted over, pulling the joint from Frank’s beak, commandeering it to prevent a fire in the back of the truck, but also to get himself a bit more relaxed. They had a long way to go.


The road through Ohio was dotted with stout little trees, leaves fallen and crested with snow. A cold wind whipped through the back of the truck, and the two turkeys huddles together for warmth.

“I wonder if Anne is being eaten on some plate right now,” wondered Tony aloud as he imagined his menstrual lass, the image of the cute hen getting decapitated and then plucked and BBQ’ed shattering his calm aura.

“Man, best not to think about that. She’s gone now, man.”

“But I miss her, even though we only had that one night.”

“Shot gun romances, what can I tell you man.”

The two fowl did more LSD as the sun rose, the clouds above in the morning sky becoming familiar animals they used to see on the farm. After a four hour discussion of American versus Foreign Films, the two decided to just read poetry, read poetry for hours.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Frank said, happy he was getting his taste of America.


David Anderson lives in Mesa, Arizona and is author
of other non-fiction titles such as ‘Ping Pong: Master
Level Moves’ and ‘Beauty of the Sonoran Desert while
biking close to dark’. His official website is


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