He was usually a good chicken, but when Carl the chicken got behind the wheel of his Mustang, he became a maniac.
Passing on the right.....playing Disco Duck too loud on his stereo.....giving the bird to the employees of Popeyes Chicken.
Everyone could see that he was headed to a tragedy.
Then it happened.
After a class discussion of Rod McKuens poetry, he tore out of the parking lot at Harvard and was soon flying down the interstate.
Well, not really flying because chickens don’t fly, but we’re already in trouble in this story because chickens, while them may be smart and sensitive, can’t reach the pedals on a car.
They’re kind of smart, sensitive and short.
Believe me, if they ever come up with a six foot tall chicken, you wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. Or a well-lit interstate for that matter.
Those chickens are mean.
Have you ever looked at chicken feet?
They can really scratch you. Good thing they’re tasty or we’d be shooting them for how nasty they are.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah, Carl the smart and sensitive chicken cruising down the interstate in his Mustang with his ten trillion megawatt subwoofer pumping out the bass from Eat That Rat by the RAMONES.
Well, he lost it on the curve and Jan and Dean or Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, I can never remember which, then wrote a song about it called Dead Chickens Curve and it sold like a bazillion copies and poor Carl the smart and sensitive chicken was cooked up and served for lunch at Harvard thereby living the Harvard motto of “Chicken et Veritas” or something.
I can’t stop laughing at your post!
A true story. Someone called me years ago to help her. She was waaay preggers and her husband got called into work unexpectedly. He didn’t want to leave her home alone so he left her at the home of his workmate whom he had to pick up on the way to work.
I could hear fear in her voice when she called, so I said I’d be right there.
Now, I’ve a had a pretty weird life and have seen a lot of weird things, but …
The home was off the highway and down a steep hill onto a very shaded lot. I could see two young girls, around 12 years old or so, whose white t-shirts were covered in blood. So too were their faces and their arms and their legs. I could see them flailing and flinging their arms about.
I couldn’t make sense of what I seeing, and was hesitant but also wanted to help them so drove up a little closer.
Then I could see more and could hear the squawking and carrying on.
They were throwing … seriously … live chickens at each other and having the time of their lives laughing and carrying on. I sat there stunned, not believing what I was seeing. Blood was flying everywhere. And the blood was from the girls, not the chickens.
It was then I had to decide if I really wanted to help the person who called; I started reevaluating our relationship. I DID NOT want to get any closer because I’d have to go by the girls to get her out.
My heart got the better of me and I got out and walked cautiously around them and the chickens hurtling through the air, and said, “Look. I’m going in to get “Jane”. She’s very, very pregnant. You throw one of them *&^%%$ when she walks past and I’ll wring your damn neck right off your shoulders, you hear?” If you could’ve seen one of these girls you’d know why I spoke that way – which under no other circumstances could I ever. There wasn’t much going to scare a couple of girls who didn’t mind playing toss the live chickens.