Hair Balls had an amazing dream the other night -- one of the best dreams we had that didn't involve us having to immediately change the sheets. In the dream, we had no reason to do our annual Turkeys of the Year issue, for no officials or other prominent Texans had done or said anything stupid or terrible.
Sure, the newsroom was in a tizzy, because we suddenly found ourselves with a gaping news hole. That's when someone suggested it was an opportune time to roll out our new, bi-monthly all-Braille issue. We were stoked, and then our alarm went off, and we were jerked back into a reality where turkeys roamed the Earth en masse.
Turkeys like last year's winner, Rick Perry, whose slow-motion train-wreck presidential campaign provided an embarrassment of glitches befitting a true Turkey of the Year. Last year also gave us a minor entry into the "Trial of the Century" competition, which coincided with the release of former hand-surgeon and national cocaine spokesman Michael Brown's "Letters to Sophie," in which he advised his newborn daughter on how to satisfy her future husband between the sheets: "You are wise, not weak, to simply give him his 10 minutes of pleasure. Act like your enjoying it and he'll only take 5 minutes. Then, don't forget to tell him how wonderful he was [sic]."
And who could forget last year's non-human winner, The Drought, of which we wrote, "Sign you're becoming drought-crazy: You follow the progress of one little greenish blob on the [hurricane] radar that looks like it could, with a little English and some luck, quite possibly get within spitting distance of your lawn. Don't bother: It won't."
So what will this year's turkeys issue contain? Who will win such dubious distinction? Will Mayor Annise Parker be deemed gobble-worthy? Will Perry make a repeat performance? Speculate all you want: the list of this year's winners is buried in an impenetrable underground vault designed by the Acme Company, and will only be publicly revealed next week, to astound and confound us before we slip into our heavenly trytophan-induced slumber.
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Feel free to leave your guesses in the comments section, and make sure to leave plenty of room in your gullet for next week's flavorful -- and foolish -- fowl.