It occurs to me that you’ve never asked how I became the Chicken.
No worries. I intuited your curiosity.
The story you are about to hear is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Once, a long time ago in a small town somewhere in New England a chicken story was hatched. That is to say that I, delirious from a long day of meetings, the summer heat, and possibly a bottle of wine, sent a co-worker a story about a chicken I ran into on the way home from work. The chicken, who spoke “Chickanese”, a language in which I happen to be fluent, was down and out on his luck so I offered my assistance (as any good samaritan would do when happening upon a down-on-his-luck Chicken).
The Chicken had a thick accent, a fondness for alcohol, and a razor sharp brain on the lookout for any opportunity. He was also mightily tattooed, had beady, laschivious eyes, and underneath it all, a heart of gold. Chicken may have resembled several of my co-workers all rolled into one.
The story was well received (meaning someone laughed) and I continued the Chicken saga for quite a while. Chicken’s adventures included a trip to OZ, a stint in jail, a rise to glory through government service, and a secret mission to the North Pole. He developed a life-long friendship with a penguin who also rose through the government ranks to become none other than the President of these United States and a close personal friend of Al Gore’s.
And through it all, I was the Chicken’s Confidant and Advisor. His Consigliere.
I loved the Chicken. I could have continued the saga forever, but the Chicken was not PC nor Work Appropriate. People were starting to talk. The Chicken was unceremoniously dumped into the Witness Protection Program and moved to a Safe House. (which in my mind consisted of a really nice condo somewhere in Austin where tattooed chickens are accepted as part of a diverse culture).
That’s not me, by the way, in case you are wondering.
I would never wear such a lame hat.
Eventually, the Chicken moved to a treehouse in Brazil, began writing his manifesto, and took up with a beautiful Brazilian hairdresser. Together they staged an underground investigation into illegal chicken trafficking which will be featured in a docudrama coming soon to a theater near you. I knew all of this because the Chicken would NOT shut the hell up.
I soon realized I needed a voice for this Chicken who had somehow become an integral piece of my personality.
So one Saturday morning, with a Patrick Swayze-esque determination (without the tight pants but with every bit as much hopefulness) I reached out my arm and yanked that Chicken out of his Brazilian treehouse and back into my life. I started this blog and gave the Chicken free reign.
As I continued to write, I somehow became the Chicken and the Chicken became me. I believe psychiatrists refer to this as reintegration. The blog became my Consigliere.
And the World became my army. Comment and I will make you a Capo. You don’t have to assasinate anyone or give me a cut. It’s all very friendly and above board. The Chicken is legit. If anything happens to fall off the truck, it is totally yours to keep. You’re welcome.
Now go kick some ass, my soldiers, and remember to pay your taxes. Because Chicken does not need scrutiny.
This conversation never happened.