Dear Mr. Turkey

Dear Mr. Turkey,

It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Kenni, and I often lift heavy stuff over my head often. To be honest, as every crossfitter's relationship with their meat should be, the pleasure is seriously all mine. Because by devouring you in mass quantities as my sweet Nana looks on in awe, my protein-filled friend, I actually feel more badass. You may have roamed about (hopefully in some decent amount of space), leading a good life, thinking of how you would someday have a true purpose-- to feed me. You lucky duck you, getting to feed a lifter. That's right, I'll even apply my mantra to you as I lift my fork up, and put it down. I pick turkey up and put it down. Nom Nom. Maintain lumbar curve. Nom Nom. When I PR my snatch tomorrow, I'll dance in your honor. Cheers bird.

So which of your other friends will get my attention this Thanksgiving, you may ask Mr. Turkey? Hells no Mademoiselle Cranberry Sauce can't come over to our plate to play. But feel free to invite the sweet potatoes and ham; they can javelin each other with the green beans. No one will eat that casserole anyway. Just like last year. And the year before. This guy can't come either. But this one sure can ;)

And to wash you down? I'll make my own apple juice. Haters gunna hate.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Stay powerful,
Kenni

Oh, and don't think we're skipping out on dessert. You know we've got a date with... the mother effin turdunken!!! America, I love you.