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Butterball Hotline

Every holiday season, Butterball Turkey Corporation opens their ‘hotline’ for calls, concerns, and culinary urgencies.  This is an actual account of one such call and the chaos that followed.  The operator works as a full time nurse who volunteers her services.

Butterball Hotline

Caller: “Hello?”

119 Operator: “Hello! Happy holidays and thank you for choosing Butterball Turkey! What’s your emergency?”

Caller: “Why would you think there’s an emergency?”

Operator: “It’s Christmas Eve, sir. Why else would you be calling a turkey company?”

Caller: “Well, you’re so right, young lady! And I certainly hope you can help me…this is an absolute nightmare.”

Operator: “Oh no! What can I do for you sir?”

Caller: “I have a group of 20 friends and relatives coming over for Christmas dinner tonight, and my wife just walked out the damn door with the children. She told me that I could just handle it all myself!”

Operator: “That doesn’t sound very nice, sir. Did you say something to provoke her?”

Caller: “I guess I might have. I told her I had more important things to do than help her in the kitchen.”

Operator:  “Oh….I see. What sort of important things?”

Caller: “I have to work on my computer…write notes to people and publish my stories; share pictures, give insight.”

Operator: “Well, that’s quite a lot on your plate, sir. You’re wife doesn’t understand the urgency of these matters?”

Caller: “I guess not! And now I have to cook dinner by myself. I haven’t the slightest idea how to cook any of this crap! So I desperately need your help…”

Operator: “You certainly do, sir. I’ll do my very best for you. And since we’ll be spending the better part of the day together in the kitchen, I wonder if you’d tell me your name?”

Caller: “Me? I’m Sam… Dr. Sam Nash.”

Operator: “A doctor? My goodness. So, Dr. Nash…”

Caller: “That’s Sam, please.”

Operator: “How sweet, Sam. Well my name is Kitten.”

Caller: “Kitten? Seriously? Are you some kind of part time porn star or pole dancer?”

Operator: “I’m sorry???”

Caller: “Scratch that…I apologize. I’m just extremely stressed right now, Kitten. Please forgive me. I hope you’ll understand, I haven’t the slightest idea how to cook a meal, and I’ve been left to prepare this massive Christmas feast all on my lonesome!”

Operator: “Sam, I want you to take a breath. Now tell me what you have there and how you want to prepare it”

Caller: “I’ve got this turkey…this Butterball Turkey. I had to go buy it just before I called because my wife left me with a frozen bird in a block of ice that won’t thaw out till the apocalypse.”

Operator: “I see…and the grocer, he gave you a fresh one from the back did he?”

Caller: “Yes. How did you know that?”

Operator: “Well, I mean, I just assumed…”

Caller: “Never mind. Say, what are these lips beside the emergency hotline number here on the package?”

Operator: “I’m sorry?”

Caller: “Lips! A picture of lips. What are lips doing on my turkey package?”

Operator: “Oh…those just mean it’s our freshest of the fresh, Sam. You know, it’s been plucked, prodded, and plopped straight in the bag….right out of the barn…or the nest…or wherever those things come from.”

Caller: “And that has what to do with lips?”

Operator: “Ermmmm….the kiss of freshness?”

(Extended Silence)

Caller: “Uh-huh…….Well, let’s move along. What do I do with this thing?”

Operator: “You have to pull it out of the wrapping, Sam. Take it out of the bag, maybe in the sink where you don’t make a mess.”

Caller: “Good idea. Should I preheat the oven?”

Operator: “Wow. I thought you said you’ve never cooked before. That’s very good, Sam.”

Caller: “Thank you. You sound very sweet. Maybe about twelve or so…”

Operator: “Oh, I’m older than twelve. We have to be at least 18 to dance around the pole, remember?”

Caller: “I’m only joking with you, Kitten…trying to loosen you up a little. By the sound of your voice, I’d very much like to watch you dance around a pole.”

(more silence)

Operator: “Okay….Sam, I thought you were stressed out…”

Caller: “Well, maybe your voice has calmed my nerves.”

Operator: “I’m so glad to hear that. How’s your turkey coming?”

Caller: “I’ve got him out of the bag, and I’m washing him off in the sink.”

Operator: “Very good, Sam. Now there are some things you need to pull out of your turkey, and some things you need to stuff into your turkey…all this before you put it in the oven.”

Caller: “Pull out? Stuff in?”

Operator: “That’s right, Sam. You’re getting the hang of it.”

Caller: “I think I’m going to like this more than expected. Can you give me those instructions again?”

Operator: “You mean Pull Out and Stuff In?”

Caller: “Uh-huh….I like the way you say that.”

Operator: “You do? Okay, Sam. At the top of the bird, where you see the wings; that’s where the head used to be. There’s an opening up there. I need you to reach in there and ‘pull out’ what you find.”

Caller: “Alright….I’m pulling…I’m pulling it out, Kitten. I feel as though I should stuff something in first – I mean, before I pull it out?”

Operator: “I’m sorry?”

Caller: “Oh my Lord!”

Operator: “What? What is it, Sam?”

Caller: “I had no idea these turkeys were so well endowed!”

Operator: “Huh?”

Caller: “Look at the size of this cock! But this is the wrong end…some stud of a turkey must have stuffed its ‘thing’ down my turkey’s throat! This must be a girl Turkey.

Operator: “Sam? Sam! That’s NOT a penis, Sam. That’s a turkey neck. They put it in there for the gravy.”

Caller: “The gravy? What does this penis neck have to do with gravy?”

Operator: “Are you drinking something, Sam? Are you on medication?”

Caller: “No!”

Operator: “Maybe you should pour yourself something. Let’s get out a nice bottle of white wine, pour a glass for yourself, and then put a little in a pot to simmer with that turkey neck.”

(Pots rattling…the refrigerator door opens and closes…there’s a loud pop…a soft pour)

Operator: “Sam, are you still there?”

Caller: (Gulp) “MMMMM…that’s better. I wish you were here to drink some with me, Kitten. But Kittens don’t drink wine, do they? They drink milk.”

Operator: (coughing) “Yes, Sam. That’s what we like.”

Caller: “Warm milk?”

Operator: “Sam, do I hear your wine boiling? You need to turn that down.”

Caller: “Oh. Got it. So I’m simmering this turkey neck in wine. What now?”

Operator: “You need to put a couple cups of warm water in there as well, and we will season with some salt, pepper, garlic….and sprinkle some of that on your turkey too. Do you have a thermometer?”

Caller: “A thermometer? Yea, we have one in the medicine cabinet. What do you want with that?”

Operator: “No, not that kind of thermometer. We need a cooking thermometer.”

Caller: “What’s that?”

Operator: “It’s this big long thing that looks like you should shove it in a piece of meat.”

Caller: “Oh, I DEFINITELY have one of those. Let me get that out for you, Kitten.”

(There’s a snap and zipping noise)

Operator: “Sam? Did you find it?”

Caller: “Got it right here.”

Operator: “Great! Let’s just lay that on the counter for now and we can get back to it.”

Caller: “Okay, but don’t wait too long, Kitten. It’s ready to go. Would you like to see it?”

Operator: “Oh, that’s not necessary, Sam. I believe you have what I need.”

Caller: “I certainly agree.”

Operator: “Do you have any apples?”

Caller: “I think so. Why do we need apples?”

Operator: “I like to cut them up and put them in the turkey cavity as stuffing. It gives a nice flavor and keeps your bird moist.”

Caller: “You are just amazing! I thought we put bread stuffing up there.”

Operator: “No, we will make that separately. But first, you need to reach up the bottom hole and pull out what you find.”

Caller: “Whose bottom hole?”

Operator: “The turkey’s – you silly doctor!”

Caller: “There’s something else stuffed in this turkey from the bottom end?”

Operator: “Yes, Sam. You should find a bag up there. Just reach in there with your hand and pull it out.”

Caller: “Okay. I’m reaching up there. I’ve found the bag. I’m pulling it out…I’m pulling…I’m pulling. Oh shit!”

Operator: “What is it, Sam?”

Caller: “I’m stuck! My hand is stuck. Crap! This is a fine mess.”

Operator: “How did you do that? Are you sure it’s stuck?”

Caller: “Oh definitely! You don’t think I’d know if I’m stuck in a hole or not?”

Operator: “Well alright, Sam. Just try to remain calm. Maybe you can lean up against the counter and gain some leverage…pull a little harder?”

Caller: “I’m pulling as hard as I can, Kitten. I’m pulling as hard….Ahhhhhh!”

(There’s a loud crash. A wine glass shatters.)

Operator: “Sam! Sam! Are you okay, Sam? Say something!”

Caller: “Oh Nooooooo!”

Operator: “What? What is it, Sam?”

Caller: “I got my hand out.”

Operator: “Well, that’s great. What a relief! Is everything else okay?”

Caller: “No it isn’t!”

Operator: “What happened?”

Caller: “Now I’ve got my thermometer stuck up this turkey’s ass!”

Operator: “What? Your thermometer is stuck? How could you….wait a minute. Sam, is this thermometer attached to you in some way?”

Caller: “Of course it’s attached to me! And NOW I’ve got this turkey attached to me as well! This is just a disaster, Kitten! An absolute nightmare!”

Operator: “Surely you can jerk that off, Sam.”

Caller: “No, I most certainly cannot jerk ‘that’ off! And my thermometer is throbbing!”

Operator: “OMG, Sam…I’ve never had a call like this! Just how big exactly is your thermometer?”

Caller: “I can’t measure it this second! I think it’s bigger than it’s ever been! I’m gonna die right here in the kitchen!”

Operator: “No you’re not, Sam! You’re going to hang on! I’ll call an ambulance for you straight away!”

Caller: “An ambulance? Are you crazy? You would have an army of paramedics come crashing into my house to see this turkey dangling on my thermometer? No thank you! That’s NOT happening!”

Operator: “Okay, bad idea. What do you need me to do, Sam? Can you make it to the hospital? I can call ahead…have someone meet you.”

Caller: “Have someone meet me? Where?”

Operator: “At the emergency room. I’ll call someone there. They can try to slip you in unnoticed….be discreet.”

Caller: “Be discreet? In a hospital? You must be joking.”

Operator: “I don’t see a lot of options here, Sam. We’ve got to DO SOMETHING, don’t you think?!!

Caller: “Alright, this is against my better judgment. But I’ll go. And you better have somebody there for me, Kitten! You got that? I can’t even put my pants on!”

Operator: “I’m getting on that right this second, Sam.”



I knew exactly who it was racing across the hospital parking lot in that Audi Sports Coup. He pulled up to the Emergency entrance like he owned the place as I watched through a small back door window. He flashed his lights and rolled down the glass. I unfolded a wheelchair, then jarred the back door open before making my dash.

“Sam?” I inquired, rushing to the driver’s side.

“Who are you?” He demanded.

“No time for that! Hop in unless you fancy an audience.”

Sam stood, wrapped in a sheet with an enormous bulge at his waistline which was cradled in his right arm. He looked 12 months pregnant.

“Sit!” I insisted. He plopped right down and off we went, racing for the door before the next ambulance pulled up. Once safely inside, we paused in the empty hallway.

I extended my hand. “I’m nurse Kit. I’ve been expecting you.”

Sam looked annoyed, though I couldn’t help but grab his sheet for a lift to take a look. “Oh wow! That’s a BIG turkey under there, Dr. Nash. We need to get moving.”

“Moving where, young lady?”

“Well, I should think the O.R.! We’ve got to get that thing off pronto.”

“O.R.?” He repeated. “That’s the operating room? We aren’t going to be operating on anything, Kit. Let me make that perfectly clear!”

“I suppose you’re right,” I surmised as I took another look. “But we can’t sit around in the hall all day, so just hang on.” And down the corridor we blasted, his sheet blowing in the wind like superman’s cape.

As we rounded the corner, he saw the sign and the arrow.

“Oh, hell no! We’re not going in there!”

“Yes we are, Sam. We must!”

“Are you freaking crazy? I’m a man, for crying out loud! They will stop you at the desk and ask what you think you’re doing!”

I hesitated. “Quite right…”

We pulled up beside the surgical supply room and clicked open the door. I dove inside, just for a second, then re-emerged with the necessary items.

“Here, put on this surgi-cap (it looked like a blue bonnet), and we’ll put this gown on your top here.”

Sam reluctantly agreed as I pulled out a small supply of make-up from my lab coat pocket.

“Now, let’s get some rouge on these cheeks,” I said, brushing rapidly to cover his whiskers. “And a little eye liner,” I continued. “Let’s darken these eyebrows slightly.”

I stood back to admire my work. “Your lashes are gorgeous, Sam. We can leave them as is. Now pucker up!”

I rolled the lip gloss on heavy. “Strawberry,” I said. “You like?”

“This is madness! Absolute madness! How did you know I like strawberry?”

“Never mind, Sam,” I giggled, blasting his wheelchair through the double doors of Labor and Delivery.

“He’s 10 inches!” I announced. “Oooops!”

“I mean she’s 10 centimeters! Ten centimeters and completely effaced. I’m taking L&D Room One! Open up and let me through!”

“Opening room one,” The scrub nurse repeated, leading the way for our arrival.

“I’ll take it from here,” I told her, breezing by in a white cloud.

“Who is the OB and shall I call anesthesia?” She asked.

“I’ve got it covered,” I answered. “Just close the door behind us.”

“You’ll need to slide up on the table, Sam.” I locked the wheels to his chair and came round to assist him.

“I’m sure I can do this myself,” He said gruffly.

“Oh, I know. Anybody who can drive an Audi like that with a turkey in his lap should be more than capable of getting on the delivery table.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing? I think I should be seeing a doctor.”

“I can certainly call one for you, Sam. We can bring in a whole team if you like!”

Sam paused and grimaced. “Why don’t you just see what you can do first. How bout that?”

“Whatever you like, Sam. Now, lie down on your back,” I instructed as I rolled the chair into the corner. I pulled out the poles on either side at the base of the bed and set up the apparatus.

“I’ll need you to slide your bottom down here to the edge, Sam. And put your feet up in the stirrups like so…” helping him maneuver.

“You’ve got to be kidding! I’m not spreading my legs up in the air like this,” Sam protested.

“Do you want me to help you or not?”

“This is not a ‘real’ delivery!” He seemed flustered.

“It looks like one to me, Sam. Anyway, this gives me more room to work and see what’s going on down here.”

Sam flopped back on the table with a loud bang, looking disgusted. I strapped his ankles to the stirrups securely.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam tried to sit up, but I pushed him back. “Why are you strapping my ankles?”

“Just relax,” I said. “It’s a safety precaution. You need to hold this turkey up while I check things out between your legs.”

“Oh this is just beautiful,” He sarcastically remarked.

“I certainly agree,” I responded. “You have just what I need.”

“What did you say?” He asked.

“I said you’re holding that turkey right where I need it. Now hold still,”….dabbing on the Barbasol cream – a generous portion.

“Now what are you doing?”

“Hold still,” I said! “I’ve got a razor down here. I’m shaving your giblets.”

“Oh my God in Heaven; this cannot be happening.”

“Standard surgical procedure, Sam; get you nice and smooth.”

“I’ve told you already, we are not doing surgery!”

“Almost done, Sam; just a few more strokes. You have some lovely giblets, by the way. I like how they roll around when I stroke them.”

“Do you have any plans of getting this bird off my cock?” He whaled thunderously.

“Off your thermometer?” I asked.


“That’s the very next thing, Sam. I need to find just the right tool.”

I pulled open the drawer beside me, rummaging through surgical instruments and supplies, clinking and clanking – slinging unwanted items over my back till I finally found what I needed…a special delivery speculum.

“Here it is, Sam! Just what I….”

His hand gripped my shoulder.

“Oh shit,” I whispered.

“Oh shit is right,” he echoed.

I looked up. “How did you get unstrapped from the stirrups?” I noticed the turkey sitting calmly in the wheel chair.

“I’m rather nimble that way,” He mentioned, pulling me up by my arms and bending me over the table. “You don’t think I know who you are? You don’t think I know what you’re up to?”

“Sam, I can explain…”

WHAP!!! He smacked the shit out of my ass!

“Arghhhhh! That hurt, Sam!”

WHAP!!! He smacked me again.

“How about that one?” He asked mischievously.

“That was even worse,” I whimpered.

“Maybe we should pull these down and continue,” He laughed as he ripped down my pink scrub bottoms and tore off my panties.

“Sam, just wait a minute!” I begged.

But he grabbed my wrists and held them fast behind my back, knotting them together with my shredded thong.


“Oh my God, Sam!”

He was spanking my butt cheeks mercilessly.

“Let’s see how pink we can make these,” He murmured, slapping my delicate white orbs into glowing red moons.

“Okay! Okay! Okay! It was a trick. I confess! I confess! It was a mystic turkey. It was a spell…a bit of Christmas magic! Like Frosty the Snowman…”


“Please, Sam! Holy Fuck! You’re wearing me out!”

“Oh look,” he said, running his fingers over my burning buns. “Pink as kitten’s tongue, I’d say – pretty as a pouting pussy.”

I felt his fingers open me from behind. I was wet, though I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want him to see that. Well, of course he would see that.

“Up on the table you go, Miss Kit!”

He just slung me up there like a sack of potatoes. Then he jerked me down to the edge, strapping my ankles to the stirrups.

“This looks familiar,” He grinned.

“Sam, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but…”

“Be quiet!” Sam placed his finger over my mouth as if snapping a button. Then he reached for the surgical scissors and snipped up the front of my scrub top, filleting it open like a fish.

“This too,” He remarked, slicing through the straps of my bra, exposing my meager breasts and my tiny pointed nipples. He ran his hands down my nudity, groping and kneading.

“How did you know, Sam? How would you know who I am?”

Sam slid his hand down to my mound, fingering my downy fur.

“I actually know how to cook, Kitten. I do most of the cooking when I’m at home. I also know most of the grocers in town. They save me the best cuts of meat, the freshest vegetables, and the tastiest desserts.”

Sam leaned way over and licked my nipples, taking each in his mouth and nibbling the sensitive flesh till I squealed, writhing delightfully.

“These grocers, they tell me things – like when little girls make special, unspeakable plans to trick me and lure me.”

“Lure you?” I asked in a breathy tone. “Who is actually being lured here?”

Sam playfully bit me again, then trailed down my belly with his warm, wet tongue. I arched inadvertently, opening myself for the taking.

“Did you think you would fool me? Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you from the hotline?” Sam glared at me from between my thighs.

“I thought you might know,” I said. “I hoped you might punish me.”

“Then, you get what you wish,” He confirmed, nipping my clit with his pearly white incisors. I gasped. He kissed it to make it all better. “Now you’re the one throbbing.”

He was right. My hood recessed, revealing my pulsating English Pea, raw and raging for affection. I felt myself blossom. I watched him breathe in my scent. His tongue darted to greet me.

“Sam, you’re going to make me come and you’ve barely touched me down there.” My muscles were twitching.

“It’s unfortunate for you to be so easy.” He licked me long and deep, his tongue dipping in a slow wet slurp till I wept in his mouth and drizzled sweet honey down my crack. “You’re such a messy little girl.”

“I’m only easy for you, Sam. And you like me messy.”

He shoved in his fingers and I shattered, gushing in his palm like a champagne fountain – my trickling tunnel gasping and grasping his knuckles. He pumped and he prodded till my thighs were a tremble.

When he stood, I fell open.

“What’s this?” He asked, pointing to my heart shaped pubic tuft.

“I’ve been keeping that since February,” I answered.

“Valentine’s Day is over,” He smirked, reaching for the razor.

“No, Sam! Somebody likes it that way!”

“Which is why I do not!” He growled. Then he swiped it off! “Now it’s time to take your temperature.” He was hard, thick, and ready.

“I have a fever,” I said. “Like I’ve been in the oven.”

“I don’t think you’re done yet.”

“Then stuff me and cook me,” I pleaded.

“Stuff it in and pull it out?” He playfully asked.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“What about the gravy?”

I hesitated. “I’m unprotected, Sam.”

“That’s not what I asked,” He responded.

I smiled. “You know where I like it.”

“Very naughty. Very dangerous,” He noted, sliding the tip of his prick between the lips of my opening. He splayed me apart even further. “I’m just greasing your pan.”

“Quit teasing me, Sam. You know I need stirring.”

“I can see that,” he rumbled. “You’re pot’s bubbling over.”

“And you’re a chef after all, aren’t you Dr. Nash?”

“Among my many occupations,” He grinned, slamming his thermometer into the depths of my heat.

“Oh Sam, you’re so huge!” I was gasping and heaving as he pounded and tenderized.

“Shall I scramble your eggs, naughty girl?”

“I think you already have,” I admitted. “What could I ever do to stop you?” My arms were numb behind my back, still tied at the wrist with my undies.

“You don’t want to stop me,” He moaned, thrusting and beating and whipping me to a froth. “Your dish is nearly done.”

“It certainly is,” I groaned, squirting across his balls with my Cherry Jubilee. Sam was right behind me, exploding with a vengeance; filling me to the brim with his succulent sauce. It was a marshmallow topping on my sweet potato casserole.

“Care to lick the spoon?” He asked, prodding my mouth with his dripping spatula.

“I’m so glad you asked,” I giggled, lapping and sucking till he was dishwasher clean. “And I can’t help but notice,” I said, batting my eyes…


“Your thermometer, Sam.”


“I think your mercury is rising….again.”

“Then we’re off to quieter quarters,” He announced. “A more private cooking lesson!” He picked me up and slung me over his shoulder like Santa with a bag full of presents – my bare ass bright as the northern star.

“Where are we going, Sam? You can’t just walk out of here with me naked like this!”

“I can do whatever I want, Kitten. I’m a chef. And this is Christmas magic.”

“But what about your turkey?”

Sam gave me another slap on the ass, swirling me through Labor and Delivery like a sled across the sky. He gave my butt cheek a playful nibble.

“I prefer ham to turkey any day…”

    What do you think?

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