Nobody Puts Chicken In the Corner.

Hi World,

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.


  10 comments for “Nobody Puts Chicken In the Corner.

  1. February 24, 2010 at 6:36 am

    Yes, I do realize that I may be becoming totally obnoxious with the “insert picture” tool. Bear with me. I'm like a toddler with a new naughty word. I need to keep using it just to make sure I remember it and to annoy people. If you ignore me, I'll learn a new trick.


  2. Anonymous
    February 24, 2010 at 7:01 pm

    The reason that I love reading this blog is because is because each entry is so much like the story that woman told Congress yesterday about her out of control Lexus. She recounted how it sped uncontrolably at 100 mph for six miles, during which she was unsure how it would end. Just like Chicken's stories. Keep em coming. And how about some sound to go with the pictures. Feel free to use some of mine.
    The Boss, I mean Il Capo.


  3. February 24, 2010 at 8:12 pm

    Anonymous-I did not hear the lexus/woman story but it sounds like it ended well. Sound is a good idea and The Boss's music is always a good fit. Thanks for reading.


  4. February 25, 2010 at 12:11 am

    So precisely where does the egg fit in?

    Inquiring minds and all that…;-)

    I quite fancy scrambled in the morning. You up for it?…

    Actually, if you would consider becoming a Bantam you would be protected forever and ever Amen over in England.

    Just so you know in case it ever gets dangerous there…


  5. February 25, 2010 at 1:59 am

    4DX: I would so be there except you keep threatening to eat my legs. And now my unborn children. I think this “bantams are protected” talk might be a clever ruse. My eggs live in a commune-like community in Cape Cod where they are lovingly cared for by secret service agents. They are all very good sailors. Thanks for the blog referral by the way. Sci-Fi is usually not my thing but he did draw me in.


  6. Anonymous
    February 25, 2010 at 2:16 am

    And now you know the rest of the story (insert Paul Harvey picture here). 🙂



  7. February 25, 2010 at 3:40 am

    Ha! Yes-I forgot that part.


  8. Anonymous
    August 1, 2010 at 4:56 am

    Happy Birthday Chicken!



  9. August 7, 2010 at 5:09 am

    Where are you Chicken????


  10. August 8, 2010 at 7:55 am

    Hi CB, Hi Empress. I've been on vacation in my hometown. Stories coming soon:-) Thanks for the wishes and the concern!


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