Simone Biles Couldn’t Handle This Turkey Farm Chaos!
Farm life is full of surprises, but nothing could have prepared me—or anyone—for the absolute chaos that erupted on turkey duty last week. And yes, I’m willing to bet that even Simone Biles, with her gravity-defying flips and fearless routines, would have been completely thrown off by the pandemonium.
It all began on a sunny morning, when I decided to tackle feeding the turkeys—a chore that I had assumed would be straightforward. How hard could it be, right? Open the coop, scatter some feed, watch them gobble happily. Simple. Ha. Ha. Ha.
The first turkey I approached, a surprisingly aggressive bird I’d nicknamed “Gobblezilla,” immediately honked in what can only be described as full-on war mode. I froze for a moment, not sure whether to run, negotiate, or bow in surrender. Naturally, I chose the latter, because diplomacy is always the best strategy—until three more turkeys joined the fray, honking like tiny, feathered alarm sirens.
Next came the chase. Gobblezilla, clearly the ringleader, lunged at my boots with military precision. I tried to retreat backward, only to trip over a stray bale of hay and almost faceplant into the mud. The other turkeys seized the opportunity, darting between my legs, pecking at the feed I’d spilled, and generally acting like they were auditioning for a bird-themed action movie. By this point, my heart rate rivaled that of any Olympic event, and I was questioning my life choices.
Desperate, I tried to corral them into a corner with a bucket. Big mistake. It turned into a turkey traffic jam, feathers flying like confetti, wings flapping wildly, and the bucket somehow ended up on my head. Yes, my vision was completely obstructed, and I stumbled around in what can only be called a turkey-induced obstacle course. If Simone Biles had been there, I’m fairly certain she would have performed a perfect tumbling pass just to escape the chaos—but me? I just flailed.
Meanwhile, the ducks, not wanting to miss out on the excitement, waded in with triumphant quacks, splashing through mud and feed. The goats, always looking for drama, added their own bleating commentary from the sidelines. Henry the donkey, ever the observer, watched the madness unfold and brayed with such timing that it could have been a laugh track on a sitcom.
After what felt like an hour—but was probably only ten minutes—I finally managed to escape the coop, muddy, covered in feathers, and with a newfound respect for the agility and ferocity of turkeys. They, of course, strutted around like nothing had happened, perfectly satisfied with their morning performance art.
By the time I caught my breath and surveyed the mess, I realized one thing: if anyone could handle this level of chaos, it would have to be an Olympic gymnast. And even then? Maybe not. Turkeys don’t care about medals or routines—they care about asserting dominance, honking loudly, and making humans look utterly ridiculous.
So yes, farm life is peaceful sometimes. But on turkey-feeding day, it is pure chaos. Simone Biles might handle flips and balance beams, but facing a horde of feisty, honking turkeys? Even she might tap out.
