The many sounds of a turkey and trying to make sense of them all

She called me every name in the book. I thought I’d heard them all.
No, not my wife, girlfriend, co-worker, or boss or even the tattooed gal that cut me off at the gas station pump.
This hen turkey had evil in her heart as she let me have it, expressing her liberation from all matriarchal and feminine restraint.
I suppose I asked for it.

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