The Holidays From Another Perspective

The Holidays From Another Perspective...

Preface / Introduction

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Table of Contents
1. Thanksgiving from the turkey's perspective. Over the river and through the woods, a nation's fowl
behavior is noted, bemoaned, admonished, challenged. Timely commentary from the cutting edge.
2. 'This eager heart of mine was singing. Lover, where can you be?' Hostess Brands bites the dust...
Twinkies on the block.
3. Christmas from another point of view. The Grinch has his day... astonishing revelations from his
first-ever interview exclusive to me exclusively here.


Thanksgiving from the turkey's perspective. Over the river
and through the woods, a nation's fowl behavior is noted,
bemoaned, admonished, challenged. Timely commentary
from the cutting edge.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author's program note. If you're a resident of these United States, the fourth Thursday of November
will soon be upon us in all its excess, gluttony, and self-congratulation. We know this as
Thanksgiving Day, but it most certainly is no day of glorious and heart felt thanksgiving for the
crucial centerpiece of this annual event sacred to gourmandizing and loosened belts. In fact, for the
family of the genus Meleagris, commonly called turkeys, this date is the darkest day of their lives,
their history and their entire existence on this planet... but no longer.
This year for the first time since their majestic ancestors graced the Early Miocene a long, long time
ago and after nearly 400 years of unapologetic, systematic execution and intense gobbling launched
by New England Pilgrims in the 1660s, turkeys are rallying for life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness. In short, these ancient birds of unmitigated plumage and pluck now demand respect,
restitution, and revolution. Due to a special arrangement with a band of their insurgents, I am able to
take you inside their headquarters. Thus they acknowledge their need for world-wide recognition
and your support for their pressing cause.
Urgency in the air: my interview with the Young Turk leader called "Squawk", a bird of stark
destiny and purpose.
A Message from Squawk.
I was not particularly surprised when I saw the note left under the door last night; indeed given my
support over the course of many years for the God-given right to life of polar bears, eagles, monarch
butterflies, African elephants and many others, I should have been chagrined not to have been
contacted. I have my amor propre too after all. But there it was.
"Be ready. Comrades will make contact precisely at midnight. No cameras. Nothing but pencil and
paper." Then the bold, audacious, even grandiloquent mark already famous: "Squawk" and his proud
sign, one blood-red claw print. So... they had chosen me...
... And then it occurred to me. When I booked my Thanksgiving Day reservation at the Sheraton
Commander hotel right down the street, the young manager had asked me if I wanted turkey or ham
for my main course. Without thinking, I told her that if the glaze would be as deep and resonant as
last year's, my selection was certainly ham. Thus inadvertently by my choice of which dead animal I
should feast upon, I became, if anathema to pigs, yet simpatico to turkeys.
In this way I came to know that adherents of the turkeys' cause can be anywhere, even in the most
unexpected of places. Ah, that is what the bright-eyed, chipper serving person meant when she said,
"I'm so glad, Dr. Lant" in an especially insinuating manner. Old-goat that I am I thought her
come-hither look was for my geriatric charms, and so I thought again "there's no fool like an old
fool."
Perforce, to my work.
Understanding my task, I readied myself for what could only be a fateful encounter, its salient and
urgent points to be brought to a world of the unenlightened. And so I regained myself. I was myself
again for in such matters I remain a "Young Turk," too, deferring to no one, not even Squawk,

http://www.LizsWorldprofit.com Copyright Elizabeth English - 2012 4 of 13


revolution's anvil though he be.
The feathered comrades were as good as their word. At the stroke of midnight, I heard the fluttering
of wing and heard the unmistakable sound emanating from the fleshy wattle or protuberance that
hangs from the top of the beak. And thus I fell, through professional pride and recognized standing,
into the hands of those who, without Squawk's laissez-passer, in an instant could blind me and shred
my fragile flesh. I now felt as they had felt these thousands of years a prisoner, helpless,
incarcerated, destined for premature death. Thus did the clan Meleagris signal the new order of their
kind... and the resulting new order of mine.
Of the next several minutes, I recall sensations only. Of feathers carefully positioned to extinguish
all light; just a little showing, otherwise entirely dark. Of the occasional sharp claw prick, whether
by accident or design, no less painful for that. It was an acute reminder that I was in their complete
and utter power, perhaps the first man so rendered in the long relations of turkey and human. They
said nothing. I said nothing. Where I was, who I was with, what they would do to me would become
completely apparent soon enough... and was.
Squawk's headquarters. We meet and "talk turkey".
I never did discover just where I was and where we met. But even if I knew, I wouldn't say. I am a
journalist and my sources sacred... So I shall simply say the place had a make shift aura about it, as
if this were a temporary abode, one to be quickly occupied, quickly abandoned.
"Good evening, Doctor Lant." It was Squawk, and I felt his power, strength, and authority at once.
Here was a bird who meant business... and who saw me only as a tool to reach his objective. We
understood each other, and so our business could proceed, briskly, for time was limited and we both
had deadlines...
He motioned me to a chair. He stood. And then he began, the words swift, lucid, hot, each a
declaration etched in acid. He meant every one and every one came without difficulty. Here was a
subject of paramount importance to every turkey. He knew he spoke for all his breed, was supremely
confident of his position, of the need to speak out, of the full justice of his cause, and the need for
action now, complete action, long overdue action, and of what would have to be done should this
action be deferred by even a single moment.
It was a clarion call... and Squawk looked through me and made me see what he saw... he was a bird
transfigured... exactly what was required for this pivotal time in the long, one-sided relation of
turkey and human. I knew as each word emerged that I was hearing history in the making. Like it or
not, every clipped syllable was Important. Things would never be the same again.
What Squawk said.
Now each word came fast, irrefutable, beautiful in its delivery, purified by total belief and total
commitment.
Of the days before human came. Of a proud bird, great in size, majestic in movement, free ranging
over the great land called by humans North America. These were the proud days, the glory days,
when every bird knew the joy that is freedom.
Of the days that brought the people called Pilgrims, people who fled tyranny and injustice only to
bring a greater tyranny, more menacing and thorough injustice to the land called New England.
These storm-tossed people came with only one thing in amplitude: arrogance, an arrogance that
everything they saw was theirs and theirs alone. We did not understand these humans then. We saw
them as poor, freedom-loving, in need of help we were ready to give in unstinting measure.



And so we accepted their invitation to the First Thanksgiving... where we were the guest of honor
indeed: as food. We came in friendship. We found the cooking pot instead... and not merely the pot
for some; the pot for all of us in our thousands, our tens of thousands, our millions.
And so the Pilgrims grew fat upon the bounty of our trusting bodies. No wonder these humans gave
thanks. They were triumphant over all, a revolution in every step they took. Against such
God-believing people, forever certain in their cause what could be done except revolt, violent,
intense, thorough, unceasing until the freedom of old becomes the order of the great new day.
"Does this mean....?", I asked. He knew the question before I even finished it. "Yes, friend, it does.
There are comrades who operate in the shady lanes of liberal Newton, of affluent Brookline, even
one hero who patrols the grounds and harasses the privileged students of the Harvard Business
School. And as our ranks grow, we shall expand... so that no pedestrian wherever can walk, no
motorist drive without our calculated outrage made manifest, painful."
He meant every word ... and from previous print reports I knew he would do it if he could. After all
the population of wild turkeys has never been greater or demonstrated greater purpose and solidarity.

Envoi
With the briefest touch wing to hand, Squawk signalled that this unprecedented interview was over.
Disciplined comrades were at the ready for my immediate departure, blocking my eyes, escorting
me home to a world which suddenly seemed less equable than before.
I turned on CNN which announced that the President would be exercising his powers of executive
clemency at the White House today, live in just 15 minutes. The lucky spared turkey was called
"Squawk". Now wasn't that cute?
The Marine Corps band was on hand and was just now commencing "The President's Hymn" written
in 1863 when President Abraham Lincoln declared the first official Thanksgiving holiday. Its
authors were William Augustus Muhlenberg and Joseph W. Turner, spiritual descendants of the
Pilgrims.
"GIVE thanks, all ye people give thanks to the Lord, Alleluias of freedom, with joyful accord; Let
the East and the West, North and South roll along, Sea, mountain, and prairie, one thanksgiving
song."
Now face to face, eye to eye, Squawk and the President were just a moment from destiny...



'This eager heart of mine was singing. Lover, where can you
be?' Hostess Brands bites the dust... Twinkies on the block.
Author's program note. It's my fault... I loved Twinkies once upon a time. Yes, when I was young
and innocent, so long ago I can hardly imagine, Twinkies and I were an item, a couple, just the two
of us, no need for anyone else. We had everything we needed in one neat little package. I was
complete, satisfied, blissful.
However the road of love is a rocky road. My mother disapproved of you, Twink... and there was
that fateful day she found you in my Howdy Doody lunch box, dumped you unceremoniously on the
ground and crushed you beneath her adamant shoe. I wanted to rescue you, hold you, bring you to
my ardent lips and tell you how much I still cared... but the woman was obstinate, stubborn,
determined to have her way, as I have long since discovered women can be. Something changed in
our perfect relationship that day... I loved you... but she was the one who must be obeyed...
But there's something else, something I must tell you now; something that's been on my conscience
for over 50 years. I was unfaithful to you, Twink. There was the delectable affair I had with... and
the delicious one with... and of course that wild and crazy thing, that fabulous fling in chocolate
with... but why humiliate myself further? I loved you in my way; gave myself to you; you were
always there for me... and I cheated. You would have forgiven me, I know... you always forgave
me... but I couldn't forgive myself.
And so guilt entered and tainted our perfect relationship. When we met in ways secret and
clandestine I felt ashamed about the lies and deceptions... and I couldn't, just couldn't, meet you in
the open, anywhere. What would have happened if she had found out causes me to quake and
tremble to this very day. I was a lover, not a fighter.
Besides, Twink, and I must be severely honest and candid here, as we said we'd always be with each
other; by then your pristine reputation was tainted. People were saying terrible things about you,
awful, horrid, things I couldn't bear. And it hurt, Twink, and made me doubt you and whether our
love was pure and healthy, not stale with a passed shelf life.
Detectives, gum shoes, sleuths.
With so much negativity, with so many doubts now circulating, I was frantic. I loved you, despite
my infidelities, how I loved you. But how could I not doubt you with so much said against you? It
was driving me crazy... and so I went undercover with the hope that nothing I was hearing, nothing
that was eating at me was true... and profoundly fearful that it was. My work was long, arduous,
exhaustive. This is what my agile search assistants and I discovered...
The truth, the whole truth.
First of all, you were a lot older than you let me believe. You came from Schiller Park, Illinois, not
so far from where we met, in Downers Grove. You were born in 1930 and given your peppy name
by James Alexander Dewar, a baker for the Continental Baking Company. He named you after
"Twinkle Toe Shoes".
I wanted to believe your age didn't matter, but it did. You treated me like Norma Desmond did her
boy toys; like Blanche DuBois treated hers. You said you'd last forever; love me forever; feed and
comfort me forever. You were a panther like Circe, Morgan le Fay, Omphale combined ... ageless
you said, cleverer than me, that was certain, for you had never said more than necessary, whilst
never disclosing a single extra word or fact. Bravissisma!



These reports, so detailed, made it clear that you were always the "hostess with the mostest," a
crowd pleaser, making millions smile from your protected formula of wheat flour, sugar, corn syrup,
niacin, water, high fructose corn syrup, vegetable and/or animal shortening, and...
partially hydrogenated soybean, cottonseed and canola oil, and beef fat, dextrose, whole eggs,
cellulose gum, whey, leavenings (sodium acid pyrophosphate, baking soda, monocalcium
phosphate), salt, corn flour, solids, mono diglycerides, soy lecithin, polysorbate 60, dextrin, calcium
caseinate, sodium stearoyl lactylate, wheat gluten, calcium sulphate, natural and artificial flavors,
caramel color, yellow No. 5, red No. 40, and...
one or two secret ingredients even my highly capable spies could not discern, plus la piece de
resistance, vanilla cream filling, literally la creme de la creme. But you liked being unpredictable,
experimenting with other cream flavors, particularly banana. I always thought we had chemistry,
Twink... but it was you.
More that I learned about the Twink of my life.
I was obsessed with you, Twink. And the fact that she kept me from you, only made me want you
more. I had to know about you; everything about you. Nothing was too small or insignificant. Like I
said, I had to learn everything... and so much truly shocked me. Like this... just one Twinkie, a
single one, contains 2.5 grams of saturated fat, representing 13% of the recommended daily intake of
saturated fat based on a 2,000 calorie diet. It is 42% sugar, 21% complex carbohydrates and 11% fat
by weight. No wonder every time I nibbled on your delectable ear I felt like flying. And I thought it
was love...
Rumors, misinformation, lies, humbug, distortions... oh, Twink!!!
I am at the tail end of the last generation to believe a lady only appears in the newspapers 3 times...
when she is born, when she marries, and when she dies. But Twink I found page after page of the
most lurid information about you...
About how cute young gay boys, boys noted for living on the edge, are called Twinks... after
you,Twink, you.
And how good people worldwide have been duped into believing that you are infinite, immortal, as
eternal as the Eternal City itself; that you don't age, can be eaten with confidence and joy dozens,
even hundreds of years after creation; the common and widespread belief that Twinkies are forever,
a belief put to the test by the 1988 film, "Die Hard", where John McClane gets sick after eating a
"thousand year old Twinkie" found in an under-construction floor of the Nakatomi Plaza building.
Twink, my once honored and profoundly cherished, revered partner, where were you when these
hideous charges, falsehoods, these deceits, deceptions and lies were disseminated? Have you no
shame, no desire to stand tall as a truth teller. Is filthy lucre your only objective? Where did you go
so very wrong? When did your very name conjure the shameful and disreputable... as in...
The Twinkie Defense.
The expression derives from the 1979 trial of Dan White, a former San Francisco, California police
officer, fire fighter and city district Supervisor. On November 27, 1978, White assassinated Mayor
George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk. A significant element raised by the defense was
White's consumption before the incident of junk food and sugar- laden soft drinks. So low had your
reputation sunk by then,Twink, that when this was dubbed "The Twinkie Defense", the name stuck
and your stock fell further still. Many people, former advocates for Twinkies now believed you
could and should be held responsible for most any social problem or outrage. Sales, of course, took a



beating... I was one of the disenchanted who left, walking out on you, loving elsewhere.
Crisis at Hostess Brands.
Thus matters rested for a long chain of years. Though I had loved you once with fervid adolescent
passion, I loved you no longer and scarcely ever thought of you and your sorcery and taste. Then
just the other day, I heard that Hostess Brands, your home, was in bankruptcy, its assets including
you to be sold to the highest bidder. Every kind of "reason" was advanced for this sad state of
affairs, changing taste, a more heath conscious society and consumer, greedy employees whose
recent strike crippled the company, clueless but egregiously overpaid executives. Perhaps.
Now, Twink, I give you my explanation, and it's simply this: you didn't love me as deeply and
profoundly as I loved you... and so you broke my heart.
But, Twink, here's the punch line: I miss you; have missed you for years and want you back.
Wherever you end up, Twink, I'll be the first in line. In the meantime, let me sing this tune for you:
"Lover, Come Back to Me", music written by Sigmund Romberg with lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein
II for the 1928 Broadway show "The New Moon". I like the versions by Billie Holiday and Barbra
Streisand you can find in any search engine.
"The moon was new/ And so was love/ This eager heart of mine was singing/ Lover where can you
be/ You came at last/ Love had its day/ That day is past/ You've gone away/ This aching heart of
mine is singing/ Lover come back to me
Forgive me, Twink! Come into my home and heart again! Don't leave me when I love you so!



Christmas from another point of view. The Grinch has his
day... astonishing revelations from his first-ever interview
exclusive to me exclusively here.
Author's program note. You just never know what impact the printed word is going to have, and this
tale of The Grinch proves the point. Thanksgiving Day, The Grinch (he insists upon the use of the
capital "T" ) was sitting at home having polished off last year's holiday left-overs as his wont, when
his eye happened to see a corner of an article used to wrap the garbage. It was my report on
"Squawk", the valiant leader of the "Young Turks" fighting for the freedom of turkeys everywhere.
The paper was greasy, ripped, noisome from the remainder of The Grinch's favorite morsels which
stank to high heaven.... in fact, he could only finish the article by searching online for it at
jeffreylantarticles.com. He liked what he read... and at that moment (as he later told me) he
determined to break his lifetime of media silence. He wanted his story to be told, and he wanted me
to tell it.
Within the hour, his invitation was en route to me, never mind that it was the middle of the night,
3:22 a.m. Eastern. The Grinch knew his man. You can sleep anytime; but such an interview comes
but once in a lifetime.
The letter to me from The Grinch.
There was a sharp knock at the door, the kind of knock that summons you to Destiny. I couldn't
immediately tell if it were real or a dream but its insistence made the point. There was a note under
the door. It said, "Open the door!", nothing more. So more irritated than apprehensive, I did. There
was a Christmas bouquet on the welcome mat, wilted, one half- eaten candy-cane alone amongst the
dying foliage. And there was a message, too, on stationery engraved with this motto, "After me, you
are the most important person on Earth."
The message couldn't have been clearer: "You have 10.5 minutes to get dressed and leave for your
Exclusive Interview With The Grinch. Be sure to brush your teeth. Don't keep your car and driver
waiting!"
I'm proud to tell you, nearly 66 that I am, that I was ready with a minute to spare, though there was, I
confess, stubble on my noble chin.
A black limousine was waiting, sleek, important looking... and clearly in need of a good wash. The
night was chill, the breeze off the snow piecing and unremitting. The door to my car was open, and I
could hear rock music from within. It was Eric Clapton singing "After Midnight" where "we're
gonna let it all hang out", where "we're gonna find out what it's all about." It was astonishingly apt
music....
I slid into the back seat, where my full attention was immediately arrested by a pair of creme colored
eyes looking directly into mine. At the same moment he merely brushed my hand by way of
greeting. It was fur, not flesh, and it was a shade of green I had never seen before. Then right beside
a dog, his dog Max, a half-breed rumored to be The Grinch's only friend, faithful to his Master, his
aspect anything but welcoming. Throughout our interview The Grinch idly stroked his hide. I liked
him the better for it.
"Well, get in, Mack, it's cold out there," a directive swiftly followed by a short, sharp nudge to my
rib cage. My encounter with The Grinch was well and truly underway.



"Ask me anything....", and he grinned broadly, the kind of grin of ribald remarks, very dry martinis
perfectly made, and bottoms pinched just so. Thus I learned that The Grinch liked the good life.
"Cookie, Mack?" He offered a box of demolished Christmas cookies with the air of a prince. There
were dog hairs in the mix. I declined the dainty. "Your loss, Mack. Now what do you want to
know?", and he told his driver to "get the lead out."
The Grinch's personal history.
"Tell me about yourself, Mr. Grinch," I asked. "Nothing I'd rather do, Mack. For as you know, I am
a most interesting fellow". Max's tail wagged as if in confirmation. And so in a voice that mixed
insinuation, wisecracks, and sweet self satisfaction, he laid out the broad outlines of his unlikely life,
the life that made him one of the handful of the immediately recognized. He laid back, lit a stoggie
(whether I liked it or not) and readied himself for his favorite story... his, at which there came into
his eyes a look of reverie, fond remembrance, and Olde Lang Syne. He smiled the smile of those
who love themselves to distraction, not wisely but too well.
Yes, there he was, the creature of the hour, the creature the world loved to revile, sitting back,
oozing self satisfaction, toodling through the darkness of the night, going nowhere in particular,
loving the high life. It was all so wicked cool... and then he remembered this all had a purpose.
"Now, Mack, what is it you wanted to know?"
The facts.
"What started it off, sir?"
And darned if The Grinch didn't shake his tambourine and so begin his tale.
"Mack, it all happened a very long time ago, but I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was near
Christmas. I was a shy kid and had only a small role in the school pageant. I played one of the extra
shepherds who get put in the back because they have to be put somewhere. It was not my finest
hour."
"It so happened that from the time I was a nipper I had a beard, full, rich, patriarchal. The day of the
pageant, my mother decided her shepherd needed a freshly shaved look. But she was terrible,
absolutely awful at what she was doing and cut me to ribbons. I was in despair knowing what the
other kids would say."
"Mom, was horrified by what she had done. She took some ointment from the cabinet and applied it
liberally. Then she kissed me and sent me on my way."
At this point he closed his eyes, the better to recall his affecting story.
"I thought the matter was closed, but as I got closer to school, the kids started pointing at me, using
some pretty strong words I can tell you. To a certain extent I was used to them; after all I was a kid
with a beard. But these remarks were nothing compared to what they were calling me this day. It
was the worst ever and every single one of them was pointing at my face."
"As soon as I could I went to the boys' room to see what I could see. And what I saw horrified me.
My whole face was green, I mean every single inch. It had to be that ointment." "I wanted to run
away."
The hot words came thick and fast, every aspect of the incident at his fingertips. He decided to run
home and hide. But he was grabbed by a teacher who thought he was trying to escape from the
pageant, something boys did. He was deposited on stage... and then it happened.
The Grinch explodes.



"I couldn't stay on that stage. I couldn't face the teachers and all the kids who started to snigger and
point the minute they saw me. I just had to get out of there."
He turned. He tripped. He fell on a pile of boxes wrapped like Christmas presents under the tree. He
crushed the boxes. The tree fell. The crowd roared. The kids jumped all over the place pointing at
me and shouting. There was the pop, pop, pop as incriminating photos were snapped in their
hundreds.
And then The Grinch heard himself shout in a voice not his own...
"I hate Christmas. I hate everything about it," sing song like a chant. "I hate Christmas. I hate
everything about it. I hate Christmas. I hate everything about it." The crowd went bananas.
Dr. Seuss heard it all, too, because he was in the audience that fateful day. And he knew a great story
when he heard one. He went home and started work on the book which after many drafts and edits
became in 1957, "How the Grinch Stole Christmas".
"Mack, I get a nice fat royalty check every Christmas, which enables me to live in the manner to
which I've become accustomed."
The car was just pulling up to my house. The dawn was just about to break. I had just one more
question to ask, but when we arrived, the door opened as if by magic. The Grinch poked my rib cage
again, Max glowered at me.
"It's been real, Mack. Write me a good story." He told the driver to "put pedal to the metal". And he
turned his head in my direction and seemed to say something. But Max was barking, while the car
shot away and I couldn't be sure. I thought I heard him say something like "Merry Christmas to all
and to all a good night". But I can't be sure... it's so unGrinch-like.
And then I heard one more line from Clapton in The Grinch's unmistable voice:
"We're gonna cause talk and suspicion"...... and he was laughing, Mack, he was laughing....



Resource
About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide
range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business
training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting,
hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online
Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today.
Republished with author's permission by Elizabeth English http://LizsWorldprofit.com.


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