Dead Birds Part Three - The Chicken Coop

This being "Part Three", it would behoove you to begin at "Part One"... you don't have to and I doubt it would make any more sense either way; I'm just a control freak who wants to manage you while you're here.  Begin here, my beauties: wondrous adventure awaits!

Welcome, loyal reader(s) and sick bastards alike! Here we stand at the End of Our Journey; the promise of Dead Chicken just over the next hill and yet all that half of you can think about is more blobfish pictures... you really do make my job a wearisome task indeed, Blobfish Lovers. But who am I to judge or turn away a reader (and potential commenter!)? I just happen to have the hots for a Cyborg Michael Fassbender*... who, along with being a creepy-but-kinda-sweet robot, was also seen providing Miss Knightly with some Good Old Fashioned "spanking therapy"... nightly**.

*He was just about the only redeeming part of Prometheus. When "Woman Who Literally Just Had a C-Section But Can Still Run" gets to carry around his head in a bag...  

"jealous" doesn't even begin to cover it.

My emotions were covetous. 

Sinful. 

Delightful. 

I feel about him the way the Blobfish Lovers do about blobfish. 

Look at his mouth! And his jaw! And his unbelievably long torso! He's just so... male***

**See what I did there? I know, I know, puns are lame, but I can't help myself! You would have to have seen that movie where Viggo and Michael run around being all smart and jealous and weird and stuff to make sense of all that nonsense I just typed. What was it called? A Dangerous Method.

                                                                        

                                                                                     Indeed!

If this doesn't increase my readership, I don't know what will!

Listen, he's always being weird, I know, but he's really cute and great and smart - I swear.

***A brand new baby-asterix inside a grouping of previously established asterisks? It's like Inception. Only I cry less and am more confused. After leaving the theater, I confess to my friend how bad I want my own Michael Fassbender head-in-a-bag and she's like "Ew! The creepy cyborg?" and I'm all "Yes, please!" and she goes "Why? What... are you... into robots?" to which I replied "LOL! In his case, yes. But I'm not like a robot version of a Furry. A Metally, I guess you'd call them?" There must be an established community of these freaks - I just need to find them.

What's that? You aren't into spanking or cyborgs at all? You want... you want...

 

 

 

This?

 Observe the flushed color around my lips; this signals my arousal for you. 

I will never play games! Carpe diem!

 

Oh, Hey, There's The Chicken Coop!

Finally, the day is drawing to an end and we get to finish our adventure in the chicken coop. Inside the low-ceiling building, there is a cool, disaffected, middle aged man who is swearing under his breath at the chickens. Thanks to TV contributing to my rearing, (much in the way a doting -but batshit crazy- aunt would) he is emblazoned on my mind as a young Paul Newman.

Lord, have mercy! I guess I'll just have to take off my shirt, too! 

What's that, Paul? You'll just put your shirt back on? Oh... yeah... okay.

There are a lot of really great things about this picture.

You're welcome****.

How in the hell Paul Newman ended up in the Chicken Coop in the middle of "East BumFuck" (as we affectionately referred to it. Seriously.) is anyone's guess but boy was I sure happy to drink in that tall glass of water. 

Go On! Git It!

Paul is Super Cool because he's the only adult at Pretentious Farm who thinks this place is lame too. He makes this clear by telling us we can do whatever we want for the next ten minutes, it really doesn't matter, until it is time to "Catch a Chicken". We all pounce on this opportunity to nervously rethink our outfits and the way we laugh. We mill about, desperate for Jason's passing attention, until Paul tells us we now have to catch one. I don't remember why we had to catch it. I don't remember what was supposed to happen afterward.  I honest to God cannot think of one valid reason to do what I did...

Paul: These chickens are a pain in the ass.

Kids: *Paul is So Cool - oh shit, are there other adults here? Nope!*

Paul: I swear to you, they are the most foul, stupid creatures you can find.

Kids: Yeah!

Paul: Chickens suck.

Kids: Yeah... they suck ass!

Paul: Very true, Children, but, as part of this incredibly enriching experience, I have been instructed to have one of you catch one.

Kids: *every hand shoots up *

Paul: Really?

Kids: *wave hands back and forth*

Paul: Well, hell. You - here you go.

Me: *AWESOME!*

Paul: *hands me a "chicken catcher"* (It's a long piece of metal, about 4 feet, with a hook at the end)

Me: *I am going to catch me a goddamn chicken - I am in control of my own destiny!*

Paul: Now, take this and attempt to snag one of these jerks by the ankles. Good luck...

Me: *I am driven by an other-worldly force to get one of these jerks Paul hates so much*

There I was, let's not think about what I looked like, feinting and dodging while I danced around the... herd? Flock? Surely it can't be flock, that's too majestic. Hang on.  Aha! Brood! Yes, that sounds better. So, I've got the brood cornered when I make my fateful lunge.

 

Super-Cool Kid Gets One!

The only problem was that, despite my incredible animalistic fury for hunting chickens, my aim was not what it could have been. It's hard, I tell you, incredibly so! You go try and catch, say, a piece of dirty laundry with a four foot long hook and let's see how you do. (You have to pick it up by the left sleeve too. And it has to be draped over the back of a frightened cat or an anxious small dog, to make it fair. See? You can't be all willy-nilly about it.)

I hook the chicken - lighting quick!- and yank back as hard as I can! 

*SNAP*

Only, you see, I had hooked it by the throat and, in my fervor, had broken the poor creature's neck instantly. 

Can't they live a long time like that, Joan?

Yes, yes they can*****.

I immediately drop the hook, equally repulsed and grief-stricken (I had meant to capture it and offer it to Cool Hand Luke - not kill the damnable thing!) as the chicken runs around the room. Its head is flopping absurdly - nay - profanely, as it takes off in a bee-line. 

*BONK*

The chicken hits a wall. It recovers, somewhat, and then redirects itself and takes off for another wall. It's surreal. It's unbelievable. How is this happening? Should I have worn my wolf t-shirt? Would that have frightened the brood into submission? Could this whole thing have been avoided? There has to be a start to this chain... 

I tear my eyes from the Floppy-Necked Monstrosity I had created and look to Paul. Paul is mildly amused and relaxed... as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. 

Me: I... I... I didn't mean to!

Paul: Not a problem. 

Me: It, it, it, I'm sorry :(

Paul: You've done me favor. I, honest to God, wish they were all dead :)

Me: It isn't dying!

Chicken: *BONK*

Paul: Oh, she will... and then I'll owe you a "thanks" :)

Me: *Paul, I begin to realize, might actually be dangerous - nothing makes sense in this world!*

The Kids have all borne silent witness to this event and are standing gape-jawed until Jason****** says:

"Joan choked her chicken!" 

Laugh it up, jerks readers. 

The rest is a blur. I do know that the Infernal Chicken was still alive as we left the barn:

Kids: Hey, Joan, I didn't think you'd know how to choke a chicken!

Chicken: *BONK*

Kids: Hahaha! Is choking chickens something you do often?

Chicken: *BONK*

Kids: Why Joan, I've never seen someone choke their chicken so quickly!

This is a difficult thing to combat at that age because, while I knew what "choking the chicken" meant,  I had no idea what the specifics actually were... like so many euphemisms, my initial interpretation turned out to be way off, I would awkwardly learn at a later date.  I have so many, many things to say here but I will moderate myself. The fingers - they type, but I go back and erase their obscenities! What control, what maturity that Joan displays*******!

Yeah, it was great. To be the butt of all those awkwardly brazen jokes... it took a Herculean effort to wriggle my way out of being "The Chicken Choker", I can tell you that. 

Did I sacrifice others at the Altar of Ridicule?  

Absolutely and with complete apathy. 

I was only 12 and was known as "The Chicken Choker", what in the hell other option did I have?

So, that's it. That was one of my Worst Days Ever...and it was a pretty bad one for the chicken, as well. Looking back on it, I find the whole thing hysterical and I'm thankful I got to experience it... except for, you know, the slowly killing the chicken part.


*BONK!*

 ****Q: Why is Joan always going on about people she finds attractive? 

         A: It's because I have elevated levels of testosterone! This makes me... more   appreciative of physical attributes? Yeah, that makes it sound classy. It also gives me "testosterone hands"! It might also explain why I yell so much! This doesn't make me a hermaphrodite, it's all exceedingly normal.

*****Proof.

******Who, the last I heard, had fallen off a steep cliff - he didn't die from it- he just laid there, thirsty and sad, until a herd of goats found him and pooped on him until he was asphyxiated. Took days, apparently.

*******Hate it!