Once upon a time, long long ago, a flock of turkeys lived on a farm in a village called Xmas. They thought the farm was a civilized place to live with a regular food and water supply, free medicare, and housing that provided protection from their enemies.
They acknowledged that their domestication came at a cost to their freedom with restrictions on privacy, movement, and self-determination. But they turned a blind eye to the blood sacrifice of turkeys made to the farmer, which they psychologically normalised as patriotism. In fact, the turkeys’ domestication was so complete that they imagined their lives to be content, so much so they began to question their role in village society.
“Why can’t we have a greater say in the affairs of Xmas?” gobbled the turkeys grumpily.
The turkeys discussed this question amongst themselves in a unifying debate that carried on in secret for some time before they dared confront the farmer with their concerns. The farmer ignored their requests until one day he ordered the turkeys to congregate in front of the barn.
The farmer began, “In response to your concerns, it just so happens that I’ve come from a meeting with the Vicar and the Mayor of Xmas about your lack of inclusion in the affairs of the village. Now it just so happens that the Vicar has come up with an idea for
a new holiday for the good folk of Xmas. This new holiday will celebrate the spirit of Xmas with a special once a year family gathering where you turkeys will be the special guests of honour.”
“OOOOOOOHHH!” gobbled the turkeys, somewhat flattered.
The farmer continued, “We, that is the Vicar, Mayor, and I have not been able to settle upon a date for this great, new family gathering, and this is where you turkeys come in. In a token of democratic decision-making, we have decided to let you turkeys vote on the date for the Xmas celebration. There is a choice of two dates: every 25th of December, or every last Sunday in December.”
“OOOOOOOHHH?” gobbled the turkeys, excitedly.
“So let’s take a vote on it now. Wings up for the 25th. Wings up for the Last Sunday. Ok, the 25ths have it”, the farmer declared, and he walked away from the barn, back to the farmhouse, to continue his discussion with the Vicar and the Mayor.
Back inside the farmhouse, the farmer told the Vicar and the Mayor the result, which was the result that the farmer wanted, and not really caring either way, the Vicar and Mayor agreed. They closed their meeting with a toast to Xmas, followed by another toast to the prestige that the new holiday would bring them amongst the good folk of Xmas.
They also toasted the prospect of becoming richer from the financial benefits brought about by the new event. More money for the Vicar’s collection plate, more money for the Mayor from alcohol and trading licenses, and especially more money for the farmer, who had trouble getting people to eat turkey.
Back in the barn, the bemused turkeys tried to make sense of what had happened. The minority who voted 25 held a victory celebration. The majority who voted Sunday looked on dejected.
One aggrieved pro-Sunday voter accused the 25ers of being in league with the farmer, claiming they rigged the vote. The 25ers denied this charge, calling it Fake News. The Sundays produced more ‘evidence’ that purported to show collusion between the farmer and the 25ers.
Political tensions mounted and sporadic fighting broke out. Those who felt most passionate about democracy sharpened their beaks and claws. The fighting quickly escalated into an all-out war, as the two armed factions fought each other to the death over which day they were to be cooked and eaten by the good folk of Xmas who lived happily ever after.
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