Here's a Thanksgiving story. I cooked a turkey one year, because the place where I was working bought turkeys for everyone. I was 22 and I look at this turkey like, "Why are you giving me a turkey? My parents usually take care of this shit." It was frozen so I kept it on my desk next to me and named him Chester. My job was pretty boring and lonely at the time so I talked to it all day like it was a pet. When it came time for me to cook the bastard, I felt sort of bad. I shouldn't have named him. It's silly, but my advice would be don't name your turkey.

And the obligatory Thanksgiving link. Gobble gobble.