More of the Comic Stylings of Geoff Fauxworthy

Haven't heard from Geoff in awhile! Put his AA humor down for awhile.

But last night, a lot of this monologue came to me in a dream! Weird things happen when inest late and go to bed late on a full stomach.

I am not right in the head. 

They say, “My goose is cooked.”
That’s it. No appeal. No retrial. Just—goose.

First of all… why a goose?
Why not “my turkey is cooked”? Turkeys are the ones who panic, run into traffic, and stare at you like they forgot how legs work. That feels way more accurate to most of my life decisions.

Or “my duck is cooked.” Ducks are suspicious. They look calm, but they’re judging you. You know a duck would quietly ruin your reputation behind your back.

But no. Goose.
A bird best known for honking aggressively at toddlers and having the personality of a mall security guard on a power trip.

And cooked?
Why cooked? Why not “my goose is lightly seared”?
Or “my goose is in the oven but we’re still optimistic”?
Nope. Fully cooked. Well done. No sauce can save it.

And why not other birds?
Why not “my crow is cooked”? That would at least explain why I’m eating it.
Or “my hen is cooked”? That sounds like a crime scene in a very rural soap opera.

And who decided this?
Some medieval guy in a tunic burned dinner once and went,
“Well… my goose is cooked,”
and everyone else just nodded like,
“Yes. This phrase shall now represent permanent failure for all of humanity.”

No one ever says it for small things either.
Nobody goes,
“I forgot to send the email… my goose is cooked.”
No. This is reserved for moments like,
“I replied ‘you too’ when the waiter said enjoy your meal.”

At that point, your goose isn’t just cooked—
it’s carved, plated, and being served to your enemies with a side of shame.

And the goose never even gets a say.
Poor bird didn’t do anything wrong.
Just woke up one day and found out it’s the global symbol for “I have absolutely blown it.”

Somewhere out there is a goose thinking,
“What did I do?
I honked. I walked funny.
I did NOT deserve this legacy.”

Justice for the goose.
Because frankly… my turkey’s the one who’s cooked.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ghost Warrior - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 2005 Forward Operating Base Cobra Afghanistan – 0100 Hours Local Time The air inside the briefing room was stale, thick with the scent of sweat, coffee, and gun oil. The walls were bare save for a large satellite map pinned to a plywood board, covered in red markers, tactical notes, and satellite imagery.  Seated around the long table were six men—Echo Team, DEVGRU, Tier 1 operators who had spent years in the shadows, hunting the worst of the worst. At the head of the table, Commander Greg Harlan, their operational commander, call sign “Hardman”, stood with his arms crossed. Hard, weathered, no bullshit. A lifer in the SEAL teams, Harlan had run ops from Mogadishu to Fallujah and carried himself with the kind of quiet authority that didn’t need volume to be felt. To his left, Case Officer Nick Rossi, the CIA liaison for the mission, a civilian in a tactical button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Rossi was agency through and through—sharp, cold-eyed, and built for di...
Read more

Jaws: The Minnowing

The creek at Pebble Hollow was five inches deep on a bravely rainy day and seven inches deep on a braggy sunny one, but to the kids of the neighborhood it might as well have been the Atlantic. It had secrets: crawdad castles under rocks, dragonfly pilots on patrol, a tire from 1987 that everyone pretended was a shipwreck. And now, as the summer baked the grass to crunchy confetti, the creek had something else. Minnows. Not a couple. Not a dozen. A school—no, an academy, a university—of spear-nosed micro-torpeados with the collective moral compass of a sandwich-stealing seagull. They glinted like jittery coins and moved with the precision of a marching band directed by caffeine. And they were hungry. It began on a Tuesday, the kind of day when the sun felt like a dog’s tongue, warm and slobbery. Benny “Bubbles” Alvarez dangled his toes from a flat rock while sipping a juice pouch with all the seriousness of a CEO reading quarterly earnings. The water made that glassy babble sound—the cr...
Read more

Desert Son

  Desert Son The stale hum of recycled air filled the command tent, lit by the soft, flickering glow of an overhead fluorescent bulb. Sergeant Billy "Hawk" Henderson sat stiffly on a metal folding chair, his rifle slung across his back, as the unit’s commanding officer, Major Cole, outlined the operation. His spotter, Corporal Marcus "Dusty" Owens, leaned back in his chair, absently scratching behind the ears of Koda, the sleek black Belgian Malinois lying at his feet. “This is as black as it gets, gentlemen,” Major Cole said, pointing to the map projected on the canvas wall. “Your HVT is an arms dealer code-named Ibrahim . He’s responsible for supplying IED materials to insurgents. Intel suggests he’s holed up in an encampment here.” Cole jabbed a finger at a cluster of coordinates nestled in the highlands. “Your job is simple: find him, confirm his identity, and neutralize the threat. Exfil point will be at grid seven-four-nine at 0300, three days post-engagement....
Read more