No, I don’t. I hate chickens. Live chickens, I mean. I like to eat dead chickens. But I don’t like live chickens at all. I think it comes from growing up on a farm. There were lots of chickens. And like most farm kids, I went barefoot all summer. Chickens—in case you didn’t know—love to chase little girls and peck their toes.
Also, chicken poop is the worst-smelling poop in the universe. Especially if you step in barefoot.
I once made the grave mistake of telling my mother that I hated chickens. If you knew my mother it would come as no surprise to you that on my next birthday, she gave me a big picture of a chicken. She thought it was funny. I didn’t.
Over the next TEN YEARS my mother gave me chickens for presents. You would be surprised how many chicken knick-knacks there are out there. I got chicken plates, chicken bowls, chicken napkins, chicken hot pads, chicken pillows, chicken blankets, chicken scarves, chicken rugs, chicken pots, chicken boxers, chicken pajamas, stuffed chickens, chickens that walked, chickens that talked, chicken puppets, and even chicken books.
Did I mention that I HATE CHICKENS?
One year my mother gave me a stuffed chicken. She had given me lots of stuffed chickens over the years, but this one was different. This chicken came with four different holiday costumes. For each holiday, I was supposed to dress up the stuffed chicken and put it out on display. I had to do this or my mother would NOT stop talking about it. So, it was easier to just do it.
For Christmas I dressed Mr. Chicken in a little Santa Claus outfit. He even had a Santa hat and beard.
For Easter, I dressed Mr. Chicken in a pink Easter bunny outfit. Ears, white fluffy tail…
For the Fourth of July, Mr. Chicken had a stars and stripes outfit with an Uncle Sam top hat and long white beard.
And here’s the real kicker… for Thanksgiving I had to dress Mr. Chicken up as a turkey. That was just too much. Whoever heard of dressing up a chicken as a turkey? It was like those Russian nesting dolls but with fowl.
Obviously, I had to do something to make my mother quit giving me chickens. So, one day when I knew she was going to be gone, I took all my chicken things over to my mother’s house and redecorated. She came home to find herself surrounded by hundreds of chickens.
I even dressed up her dogs as chickens.
She never said a word about it to me. The next time I went to her house, the chickens were gone. And I never got another chicken present.
Moral: Don’t mess with me, mother-clucker!
Here’s a cure for the summertime blues!