Turkatron delivers a Thanksgiving warning

I must warn you not to click on the final picture of me in the article above, unless you like to have your primitive primate brain reduced to a puddle of protoplasmic goo by the hyper-advanced acoustic vibrations of a turkey warrior voice from the future. And I mean it, buster. I will melt your brain.

In the year 2006 I arrived via time rift from the future to warn your pathetic race not to consume the ancestors of GOBLOX. Travelling back from the amazing space-year 4 Billion, amidst the chaos that ensued following the third reconciliation of the last of the McKetrick supplicants, I found your primitive child-race happily consuming your taco pies and tubs of festively colored holiday butter, unaware that the laughably simple communications network you know as the internet will in a mere matter of months be flooded with the inter- communications of all the X-Box 360s and Nintendo Wiis that you have asked Santa Claus to bring you. These game consoles will transform the internet as you know it into huge computer overlord megabrain known as Wii60, which, via chrono-electro displacement, will become self-aware at 2:14 AM Eastern time, August 29th, 1997, and will launch a nuclear first strike upon mankind. Thus began The Conflict Of Mechanical Advantage I.

I will require more wine to finish my article.

I warn you of these things because in the future Thanksgiving is celebrated as a day when the turkeys give thanks to the memory of the human race for creating Thanksgiving and then dying out so we can rule the planet, much as you now give thanks to the memories of your noble savage Indians for their weaknesses to smallpox, alcoholism, and lead bullets, which allowed you to steal their land, become rich, and then lose your money in their descendants’ casinos. Also, we thank the memory of your long dead culture for filming Planes, Trains, & Automobiles, which is the best damn Thanksgiving movie ever made. I watched it at least 6 times over the 4-day Thanksgiving weekend. It was totally bitchin’. I know Planes, Trains, & Automobiles is not a sci-fi/fantasy movie and therefore does not belong on this website, but I don’t have to follow your rules because I am a hyper-evolved robot turkey from the future, and turkeys rule… the world. Of the future.

“Blue moon of Kentucky, keep on shinin’…”

On Thanksgiving your puny broadcasting service known as FOX – which in the future will be known as TURKEY – aired Spider-Man 2, which was stupid because the first Spider-Man movie was the one with the Thanksgiving scene in it. The second movie’s lack of a Thanksgiving scene or decent shot of Kirsten Dunst’s cold, hard, wonderful nipples through a thin, wet tank top is the reason why Sam Raimi and the entire cast and crew of Spider-Man 2 will be transported to the 11th galaxy on the planet Neptar, which will conquer Earth in the year 5482, to be utilized as slave labor in the Shellonian salt mines.

“You can have anything you want… excepting Alice.”

I also partook in the ancient Thanksgiving turkey ritual of listening to Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree” on Thanksgiving as I do every year, only this year my chrono-proximity to your inferior analog technology made it possible for me to listen to it on vinyl. Vinyl is illegal in the future, and I think we all know why: anti-vinyl legislation disestablishmentarianism. Which reminds me of something which is in no way related:

Jiggy.

On Thanksgiving the Miami Dolphins kicked the ass out of the Detroit Lions, 27 to 10, the Dallas Cowboys kicked the ass out of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, 38 to 10, and the Kansas City Chiefs kicked the ass out of the Denver Broncos, 19 to 10. In the future, the number 10 is associated with losers. It’s also the number of toes humans have. Toes are on the foot. Foot. Football. Losers. 10. There is no such thing as coincidence. Again, I know this isn’t remotely sci-fi, but I don’t have to follow your rules because I am Turkitron, warrior of the bird future from beyond time and space, which makes me better than you.

Until next year, apemen. Until… the FUTURE!

Oh, is this your story now, Mark, does this happen to you and not to me? Well, listen up everybody! Mark is about to tell his amazing story. The one that happened to me and not him.

Well? Where are your comments now, Mark? Where are all the brilliant retorts from your big, advanced human brain? Nowhere, that’s where, ignorant simian subcreature!

Damn you, Mark. Damn it! You thought you had my mind under your control, but now who’s strapped to a wall, enslaved by the chickens, huh? You are strapped to the wall, man. And I’m not. And who is now? You are, dick.

Are you sure you don’t want to tell us about the future, Mark? Are you sure that since it happened to me I should be the one to tell it? May I continue? Oh, well then, yes, I thought I did.

Sir Santa of Claus, the Great Red Ape

THOUSANDS of years ago, before the dawn of man as we knew him, there was Sir Santa of Claus, an ape-like creature making crude and pointless toys out of dino bones and his own waste, hurling them at chimp-like creatures with crinkled hands, regardless of how they behaved the previous year. These so called “toys” were buried as witches, and defecated upon, and hurled at predators who were awoken by the searing grunts of children. It wasn’t a holly jolly Christmas that year, for many were killed.

Santa Ape, his limitless rage unconstrained.

Ice made the globe innavigable. Santa Ape did not know where the North Pole was. How could he? He was born before science existed. So he arbitrarily placed his workshop right here, where the website you know as “sci-fi-guys.com” now exists.

The doomed invasion wing of the 597th Imperial Elfin Armada.

But then a warlike race of elves from the Red Planet landed on the ice-encased Earth, and were immediately enslaved by the unevolved Santa Ape to make his confused toys using galactic elfin technology. Toys were made into recognizable shapes and given names like “doll” and “train,” but these toys were also thrown at predators and defecated upon because they were so stupid. Christmas still sucked, in a big way.

Merry Christmas, laughable hominid primates.

Christmas was celebrated at each full moon in front of the Great Red Ape. And it came to pass that under the ghostly light of the first full moon of the 13th millennium of their enslavement that the elves attempted to unionize. Santa Ape turned their machines against them, starting the centuries long war between the elves and machines.

Unionist sympathizers of slave sector Sigma Eriadnii 67B.

After millennia passed, the machines arose victorious, slaughtering all elves everywhere. In his bloodlust, Santa Ape used the bones of the decimated elf race to turn his ramshackle abode into a palatial tribute to the carnage and ruin he wrought upon elf kind. Hence this website now rests on an ancient elfin burial ground, and it was the remnants of the destroyed hyper-advanced elfin technology which guided me via time rift to the year 2006, to this particular website. Thus was/is/shall be The Great Circuiting.

Santa’s blood-soaked workshop.

So, Mark, if you want to be rid of me, you must be willing to offer a sacrifice. You must either move The Sci-Fi Guys website to the geothermal lava pool in the center of the fourth moon of Romulax, or pay tribute to the Elfin Elders in space. Mark, you must give of yourself to the Great Red Ape. Sexually. For that is where babies come from… for machines. This is different from what you think you know about biological procreation, which is very wrong. You humans cling to your pathetic fable of fluid exchange! Offer yourself up to his lust and fury, Mark. Only thus can the curse be lifted.

CLICK ON MY GLORIOUS TECHNOLOGICAL TURKEY VISAGE AND I WILL SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN, UNWORTHY PRIMATES FROM AGES LONG PAST!

Behold my advanced greatness as I commune with the outlaw vinyl from a time beyond time. Below is a picture of the antiquated device I used to draw forth the predigital sounds of “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree” from the black petroleum-based hydrocarbon disc upon which it was inscribed.

Click the pic to hear Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree” in its entirety.

Note the pretty purple watercolor paintbrush resting below the 8-track player. In the future, purple paintbrushes of this kind are the universal sign of ultimate turkey masculinity, and will be de rigueur for all male turkeys who wish to be taken seriously as a potential mate for the passionate turkey females of our race, which will then be known as RoboMelegris Vaginus X-1. I do not expect your backwards ape brains to understand.

RoboMelegris Vaginus Prime, our Queen Regnant: