Shhhh. Be vewy, vewy, quiet. We’re on the trail of the Turducken, a mysterious beast that haunts the wilds of South Louisiana. It’s a hard thing to track, partly because it’s not one, but three beings that form a symbiotic parasitic relationship. First, we have the Swamp Chicken. It feeds on nothing but live crawfish, raw rice and, when it can catch it, the even-more elusive six-legged Boudin, whose chirps and squeals can be heard on rainy Louisiana nights. Next, the Ground Duck. The Ground Duck hides in its lair for months at a time, waiting for the right moment when a Swamp Chicken walks by. Then it pounces. What follows is a revolting battle as the Ground Duck distends its beak far enough to swallow the Swamp Chicken whole. The job done, it lies there defenseless, much like a boa constrictor digesting a pig. And along comes the rarely seen Pelican Turkey, which simply makes a “Gobble-gobble” noise before scooping the new formed Duck Chicken with its impressive mandibles.

Or, you know, the alternate explanation is someone takes a partially deboned chicken, shoves it in a partially deboned duck and sticks that into a partially deboned turkey and then you have a Turducken.

Turduckens take on a starring motivational role in one of the very last chapters I added to The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival. They’re mentioned in passing and end up leading to a sort of arms-race, but with food stuffed inside other food rather than weapons. It was actually a chapter I had a lot of fun writing, partly because it’s so silly and fun and partly because it’s almost guaranteed to make a hard-core vegan throw down the book and run for the bathroom to puke. Which, you know, small pleasures and all.

As for me, I will not be eating a Turducken for Thanksgiving. In my experience, Turduckens are much better in theory than they are in reality. The stuffing’s all mushy, the thing falls apart when you cut into it, and the three birds all taste kind of weird. It’s a waste of a good duck if you ask me.

Well, that and I’ll be in New Jersey with the in-laws, scarfing down old-fashioned oven-baked turkey and all the traditional sides. And probably some Thai dishes. Oh, and pork roast.

The fact of the matter is Thai people love pork and aren’t that crazy about turkey. Because they know better.

And, if we all looked deep within our hearts, we’d realize we’re not crazy about turkey either. It’s big and mostly white meat. And white meat is just lame. And even the dark meat of the turkey has those weird, throat-gouging ligaments or tendons or whatever. Of course, there are two good things about turkey: 1) the skin and 2) the leftovers and all those mayo-drenched sandwiches they’ll be stuffed into.

But those of us born and raised in America have been force-fed this turkey tradition and it would be sort of embarrassing to admit that the culinary centerpiece of this entire holiday is a total sham.

Which is probably why people in Louisiana have devoted so much time and effort to improving upon the turkey experience. The family back home will likely be chowing down on deep-fried turkey, the best possible way to eat the bird. The hot oil seals in what juices the turkey has and forms a crispy salty crust, much like pork cracklins, on the outside. And for those of you rightfully worried that frying a turkey may a) set your home on fire, b) set a loved one on fire, c) set you on fire or d) raise your cholesterol level, there is another alternative. It’s the Char-Broil Big Easy Oil-less Turkey Fryer. It uses infrared heat (or something) to give you the experience of a fried turkey without the mess and dangers. Even if you’re dumb enough to chuck a frozen turkey into this thing, it will not send a flaming geyser of scalding oil shooting twenty feet up into the air.

At any rate, however you decide to enjoy your turkey this year, have a Happy Thanksgiving.

Even Hitler has had enough.

This morning I was given The Complete Calvin and Hobbes (Volumes 1, 2 and 3), which may be up there with one of the best Birthday Gifts ever. In the world. Published in 2005 and weighing in at 23.4 pounds, I’ve been waiting for it for a long time. Hell, I gave it to my son for his eight birthday and talked about it and talked about it and talked about it. Which, you know, HINT!

I also received a couple of pair of really cool sneakers, but the only pair of sneakers I’ve ever felt emotionally tied to were my first pair of Nike Air Tech (Hot Lava) kicks back when long-haird Agassi ran the courts. So I won’t go on about the shoes at length.

Like many people, I can’t actually put into words how much Calvin and Hobbes affected me. I guess I can sum it up in one way: If you don’t like Calvin and Hobbes, then you have no soul and you will rot in whatever level of Hell people like Hitler, Stalin and Mao are sitting in.

For millions of people who were of reading age between 1985 and 1995, Calvin and Hobbes was the only reason to pick up the daily paper. For years I’d try to draw the duo. Back in the day, I wasn’t exactly a slouch at drawing. I’ll say this much. It’s a hell of a lot easier to draw any Disney creation than it is to nail Calvin down. Of course, it wasn’t just the drawing. The drawing was only half of it. Bill Watterson’s stories were something else entirely. Something that had no parallel in newspapers.

The closest I’ve come to ever getting a tattoo was freshman year in college when a group of friends (known as “The Hobbes Family) almost went all in on matching tats of Hobbes standing behind the Aztec symbol associated with the Red Hot Chili Peppers “Blood Sugar Sex Magic” album. (That one was drawn by a girl named Nicole who shares a birthday with me.) All I can say is thank god we were all broke at the time.

And I don’t think it’s mere coincidence that with Bill Watterson’s exit from the funny pages, papers started their death spiral. Even while Watterson was penning Calvin, he had strong words about how stale the comic pages were in newspapers, chock full of three-panel gags and, worse, strips that have been around since the Great Depression, no longer being drawn or written by the original creator. Things have only gotten worse, with many papers just dropping comic sections completely because they cost money and, in a self-fulfilling prophecy, people don’t read them. Here’s a tip, geniuses: Get rid of the classics and let in fresh voices. Language warning: AND WHO THE FUCK NOT BORN IN 1919 WANTS TO READ GASOLINE ALLEY?!?!

And then there’s Bill Watterson, the man who broke all our hearts when he pulled the plug on the strip in 1995. And who never allowed t-shirts and stuffed toys and TV shows and movies. And who quit giving interviews and has dropped completely off the face of the earth. From what I can gather, he’s either the most principled man in the world, a true “artist,” someone with social-anxiety disorder or a sanctimonious inconsiderate jerk. Or a mixture of all of the above.

Not surprisingly, I totally identify with him. (Well, except for the money thing, because I’d sell out in a heartbeat.)

At any rate, I can’t wait to curl up with Calvin and Hobbes for the gajillionth time. If nothing else, the set goes a way to erasing the taint of a certain recently released book purportedly about Bill Watterson.

The set, much like Dorothy Boyd did for Jerry Maguire, completes me.

Now, changing gears, another thing completing me this morning is the Deathwich, a birthday ritual of mine. I stole the name Deathwich from my friend Doug. It works on two levels. It’s a sandwich that could kill you. Or it’s a death-wish on bread. Awesome.

It’s pretty much what you’d expect and, in previous years, I always took a little delight in watching the deli guy’s face register when I placed the order. It usually goes like this:

Me: “Two eggs, cheese, ham, bacon and sausage on a roll.”
Him: “Ham or bacon?”
Me: “Both. And sausage.”
Him: “Oooookay, then.”

Except today, it went like this:

Me: “Two eggs, cheese, ham, bacon and sausage on a roll.”
Him: “OK. By the way, we call that the Hungry Man here.” Then he pointed to a sign. Sure enough, what was once known as the Deathwich has become a common, everyday, heart-attack inducing occurrence.

What’s wrong with yall, America?

My income per book always reminds me of how tough it is to make at living at this gig, especially for writers who only produce one book per year.

The quote is from paranormal romance writer Lynn Viehl, whose last book was on the mass paperback bestseller list.

The bolding is mine. Because, really, people who ONLY produce one book a year? ONLY? One a year? Wow. Sure, I could probably crank out one rough draft a year, but one finished book? I don’t know about that.

We eat some weird things down in Louisiana. And it’s a state where dog fighting is still popular and there’s something called the Angola Prison Rodeo (which is totally awesome, by the way). But this is just crossing all sorts of lines, I think. According to BuzzFeed, the Chinese have discovered a way to deep fry a fish while keeping it alive. WHY?!?

A twitter conversation prompted a fond memory of Eddie Murphy’s “Boogie In Your Butt.” If you don’t remember the tune, let me refresh your memory.

Say, put a tree in your butt
Put a, a bumblebee in your butt
Put a clock in your butt
Put a big rock in your butt
Say, put some fleas in your butt
Say, start to sneeze in your butt
Say, put a tin can in your butt
Put a little tiny man in your butt
Say, put a light in your butt
Say, make it bright in your butt
Say, put a TV in your butt
Say, put me in your butt
Everybody say

Full lyrics here.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Everyone’s talking about the remake of Clash of the Titans now that a trailer is out.

But the only remake you’ll be lining up to watch next year is Piranha*. That remake will star Ving Rhames, Christopher Lloyd, Eli Roth, Elisabeth Shue, Dina Meyer and Paul Scheer.

Oh, and Richard Dreyfus.

The pity here is that they’re not remaking Piranha* Two: The Spawning, in which the piranha* have been genetically modified into FLYING piranha as part of a military experiment GONE HORRIBLY WRONG. Then again, perhaps they were afraid to mess with a movie that was directed by James Cameron. (Go on, click on the link if you don’t believe me.)

*To get the full effect, you should be pronouncing piranha in faux Spanish/Portuguese Pee-ron-ya. Even better if you use Beavis’ Cornholio voice.

Bust out the hankies for these YouTube clips of dogs welcoming soldiers and sailors home from deployment.

This here is the beagle one, but there are many others:

You never know what might happen when you send advance reader copies of a novel out into the world. Some might end up in the garbage. Some might end up being sold on eBay. Some might snag you some publicity.

In the case of one copy of The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival (B&N, Amazon), it resulted in a thoughtful and positive review from Josh Sternberg, a fellow Brooklynite, PR ninja, Twitterer and blogger. Go check it out. And I’m not just saying that because Josh really liked the book. Okay, so maybe that’s part of the reason I’m saying that. At some point, I’m sure I’ll get a bad review and only then will we know if I’ll actually link to such things. I’d LIKE to think I’d be man enough to do it.

Then again, if someone does write a bad review it will obviously be because he’s some dimwitted subliterate buffoon who doesn’t like me for political/personal/religious/hygiene-related issues, so you never know.

In other advance-copy news, a copy was requested by Sarah Wagley Branton down Opelousas-way to be auctioned off during the Rotary Club’s live TV auction to raise money for the Boys & Girls Club as well as the Opelousas-Eunice Public Library. While the book didn’t get as much as John Ed Bradley’s “It Never Rains in Tiger Stadium” did last year, it did go for over $50 to Charles Dore. Not like I expected it to do anything close to a book about LSU football (a book I highly recommend, by the way).

That’s all I have for now. I could go on an unhinged rant about Borders still insisting that the book was written by someone named Liz Wheaton, but I’ll save that for another day.