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Squid #305
(published November 23, 2006)
An Almanac(k) Item: The Giant Squid's Numero Uno Favorite Turkey Day Treat (as narrated by Rob Miller)
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Hey Loyal Readers,

Rob here. Lord A is totally sorta kinda on the mend. It was close there for awhile and I wasn't sure if he was gonna kick the bucket of oblivion or what, but now what with Devo patching his shit up and whatever it looks like he'll pull through. But y'know he still isn't exactly, like, one hundred percent, so I'm takin' the reins on his Turkey Day column this year.

If he were here—I mean, he's here, he isn't dead or anything. He is, like, actually, totally about two feet from me right now. But he's out of it is all I'm sayin'. Dead to the world, but not dead as a doornail or whatever. If he were less out of it, he'd be spewing all sorts of freaky shit about cannibal pilgrims chowing down on zombie indians and floating monsters or whatever.

I don't know what he'd want me to tell you, so I'm just gonna give you the lowdown on his total-fave Thanksgiving Day treat: Turdogducken.

He made me make this for him this one time, and I didn't exactly jot down the recipe for later or anything, but the experience is pretty much totally seared into my brain, so I'm pretty sure this is basically spot on.

First off, you're gonna need all this shit:

  • a fuckoff big turkey
  • a mid-sized chicken that could fit in the turkey
  • a really little duck that can fit in the chicken
  • a kitten
  • a box of stuffing, Stove-Top or homemade or whatever
  • 1 lb of spicy sausage (like andouille or Italian, not Jimmy Dean breakfast links or anything like that)
  • a St. Bernard or other huge ass dog
  • A giant cooker, or one of those grills made out of an industrial barrel, or a really, really huge-ass oven that folks give you all sorts of static about makin' Auschwitz jokes around, even though you're a true blue jew and all that. I guess that last you was, like, just me, but whatever.
  • 18 hours that you'll never have back again

If you're a hick or an ancient English kings—or at least make a hobby of watching Alton Brown and Emeril blow Martha Stewart as she daisy-chains Rachel Ray on the Food Network—you've already gotten the skinny on what the fuck a "turducken" is, but in case you never got the memo:

A turducken is when you stuff a turkey with a chicken, and the chicken with a duck, and the duck with stuffing. I had this once, when everyone was going crazy over it a few years back, at my sister's, and it was totally fucking gross. It doesn't sound like a good idea, and also isn't a good idea; big fucking shock. Anyway, I guess that Lord A is from fancy-Frenchmen-gourmet-hickland, 'cause he was mad for this shit, with a refinement or two. So, to make this shit Lord A style:

  1. First off, the secret is that you do the whole thing backwards. So, start by frying up the sausage, then cutting it up and tossing it into the stuffing. Just mix it up according to the instructions on the box, but don't bother heating it. Set it somewhere 'til later.
  2. Skin and gut the kitten and remove the bones. Pulling out the bones basically means splitting the lil fucker in half, but you don't really need to worry about that until the turkey-stage, because, like, the kitten, duck and chicken will be held together by the next layer out. Does that make sense? It's kinda like how you don't worry about sewing the pickles to your burger, on account the bun is gonna hold it all together, anyway. I recommend putting a little burlap sack over the kitten's face, 'cause otherwise this shit is a little grim.
  3. Repeat with the duck, chicken and turkey — although you should get these at the store, so skinning them shouldn't really be something you need to do. Once you've finished the turkey, you're gonna wanna sew him back together, so he's like a turkey-meat sock for the other two birds and the cat. No faces, since they're store bought, so burlap sacks aren't needed.
  4. Now you are read to rumble: Stuff your kitten with stuffing. Not much will fit, but save the rest for later. Then lay the kitty in the duck, wrap him up like a burrito, and lay that in the chicken and wrap it up. Now cram those bulky motherfuckers into Mr. Turkey. Put all of this in the fridge and go out to the yard, or wherever the dog is.
  5. Hint on killing a big-ass dog: Unless you have three tough Irish cousins or know some bouncers to hold it down, you're a lot better off not feeding it for a day, then talking to it really nice outside its coup for an hour, then coming up to the cage with a steak and hand-feeding it little bits, then hitting it in the head as hard as you can with a fucking short-handle sledgehammer. When it's out, bleed it, gut it, skin it. Like the with the kitten, a burlap sack is helpful at this stage, 'cause it'll help you not cry all over your fucking self. Do not look the dog in the eyes. Do Not Bone The Dog.
  6. Puke your fucking guts out. Trust me, this is totally the time to puke.
  7. Take a belt of scotch.
  8. This is also the time to cry if that's gotta happen. There's no shame, dude. Just let it all the fuck out. Burlap sack or no, you just killed a kitty and man's best friend and that shit is hard to take. You're a monster who, your soul is stained and shit, and your karma is fucked. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but someday you'll have to pay for what you did. Rules of the road.
  9. Haul the dog carcass into the kitchen. It's hard not to get blood everywhere, so you should probably lay out tarps and shit first. Also, I should have said this before, but don't be doin' this in clothes you really give a fuck about.
  10. If you got a big enough dog, it'll be roomy in his chest, and the frankenturkeystrosity will, like, slide right in. That will be kinda creepy, 'cause when you're sliding it in, it's really hard not to think about those sex videos they showed in health class, with the, like, internal view of fucking. There will be extra room in the dog, so just pad it out with the stuffing. If you took too many belts of scotch, this part will totally remind you of the opening scene in Star Wars—the first one (which is really the fourth one, right? Crazy.)—where the big ass Star Destroyer swallows the little Corellian Cruiser that Princess Leia is in. Don't mention this to anyone helping you with the Turdogducken; they'll think you've gone twisted, and then they get this look, and you fucking know they're, like, feeling around for where that hammer is, just in case. You don't need shit like that on a day like this. Keep it to yourself.
  11. If you have a big enough oven for all of this, then I don't know who the fuck you are. I cooked it in one of those 50-gallon-drums-made-int-a-barbecue things—which meant hauling the dog back outside, which sucked, but it was nearly freezing and raining, so it wasn't like I could just do all the prep outside either. You might wanna do all this shit in your garage, with the cooker out on the driveway . . . I dunno. Anyway, you want the grill or whatever to be around 350-degrees, which is a pretty cool grill, so either start the flame really early and let it die down, or don't start it until just when you're gonna cook, and just keep the fire low and steady. This shit is gonna take 10 hours to cook—I wasn't shitting you about the 18 hours you'll never have back. The hound is done when the dog part is crispy, the stuffing brown and firm—kinda like baked mud—and a quick-read thermometer shoved all the way in gives you about 165-degrees or so. At that stage, douse the fires and let the fucker rest for a couple-three hours. Drink some beers or scream at the heavens or something. Whatever makes the time pass.
  12. SERVING: I have no fucking clue. I couldn't eat this crazy crap to save my fucking life. But it smells so fucking good while it cooks, you'll hate yourself for a year. After that one time I made it, I didn't eat meat for 3 months, and I gave three-hundred bucks to the fuckin' ASPCA. No lie.

So, that's the deal, yo. Good health and all that. Happy Holiday, Thanks to all our families and friends and all of our Dear Readers, and love the one you're with.

Also, I'm pretty sure if he were totally conscious, Lord A'd want me to post this picture:

So that all y'all'd remember that maybe he wasn't much of a president, and maybe he was tossed on his ass in less than a year, but he was still better than the last guy, who toasted a half-million Iraqis and got a blowjob from a turkey.

Um . . . That's the bit. Good night and good luck. Courage. All that shit.

Rob out.

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