Before I get into the tale of Baster the butthead, I need to mention something about the election results lingering in our review mirror.

With the holidays knocking on our front door, we should be welcoming our guests, whether they be family or friends, with the warmth of heartfelt and courteous feelings no matter what political persuasion they represent.

As for those who refuse to invite or visit with those they disagree with because they voted blue, red, or wrote in “Sasquatch” reflects an IQ 10 points lower than asphalt.

So, knock it off. Embrace the coming holidays with an open heart and smiles. Paying it forward will lift the clouds of despair and allow the joys of the season to shine through.

Time now for the Baster saga that took place a few years ago.

As with any cross section of the community, each wacko in my pack of four bonded buds had their own diverse ways of celebrating the holidays ranging from hosting relatives to what they stuff themselves with during the days of feasting.

Mort, who still lived with his cantankerous and terminally ugly-attitude sister, Bertha the Bizarre always had honey cured ham and so much additional sundry sweet stuff it took a week to come down off the sugar high and usually required an emergency run to the dental clinic.

Wild Willie simply woofed down on whatever he ran over in his yard that morning, while Jane and I had the traditional, steroid-pumped, store-bought bird with breasts so huge we could have used them as an additional table leaf.

Turk was also a turkey buff, but one year he decided to raise his own. Why, we never had a clue, nor do I think he wants to anymore, other than the feathered miscreant was free and Turk figured he could save a few bucks.

Wrong. While no one claims a turkey is especially bright, the little gobbler “T” picked up had the common sense of a macaroon and a mile-deep streak of mean.

As the feathered beast grew, it became as obnoxious as it was hefty and had to be kept penned because it attacked anything that moved, even Turk — which given his predilections for having a short fuse when butt-pecked, seriously shortened the feathered freak’s projected life span.

Turk named the creature Baster to keep things in perspective and avoid any unseemly attachment prior to its scheduled browning, but quickly realized he need not have bothered since, within a few short weeks, he had to take long walks just to keep from wringing its obnoxious neck.

Baster managed to escape his holding pen on three different occasions and ended up hassling a neighbor’s horse, flattening a miniature fido named Perky and stomping a feline Fluffy into something resembling 10 pounds of used kitty litter.

By the time Turk got through paying for the vet bills and repairs on a plastic outhouse the frantic horse crushed during its escape, ole Baster was worth about $900 a pound and all big T would say was, “I’m gonna have to chew that sumbich real slow to get my money’s worth.”

Things settled down a bit after Turk locked up the miscreant in Mort’s garage for the its final fattening and ole “oven-ready” discovered he couldn’t peck his way through its cement blocks to terrorize the neighborhood.

Willie figured “yak breath” (W.W.”s endearment for Mort’s sis) would have a cow when she discovered Baster interned under solitary confinement where she usually parked her hunkajunk Subaru, but that was not the case. She became immediately enamored with the quilled cretin. “Sort of love at first gawk,” Turk lamented.

He figured Baster must have reminded her of her first and last boyfriend.

W.W. theorized it was mutual admiration for each other’s pronounced neck wattles.

I assumed it was merely a disposition match up for a couple of fruit loops.

Whatever the reason, everyone got along famously until it came time for Baster to get his giblets steamed.

Bertha went nuclear when Turk arrived with his kindling splitter and announced that the next time the gobbler laid down it would be in a roaster pan, sans feathers and assorted life-support organs.

The ensuing ruckus was better than recent political campaign battles, with name calling my editor probably wouldn’t repeat to herself, much less let me write about.

Surprisingly, a compromise was reached and Baster lived on but Turk was determined to get his money’s worth.

He ended up contributing Baster to help pay off the campaign funds of the loser lame ducks of the U.S. Congress, “To more accurately reflect their image and past performance. Hell, if they can blow a couple a grand on an aircraft toilet seat, he simmered. I ought to be able to write off some of my tax debt by donating a hopeless yard bird.”

Unfortunately, Baster was returned with a warning Turk won’t share with us.

T claims it now it still roams free in the hinterlands of the Caribou Hills and scoffs at the rumors that it may be the source of the meat in Arby’s new fried turkey sandwiches.

Stay tuned.

Nick can be reached at ncvarney@gmail.com if he isn’t headed north to check out the buzz.