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).

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.

Chicken

Will The Real "Anonymous" Please Step Forward...

Salutations, World

It's me, Charlotte. Just kidding.

Earlier in the week, I posted this as a gift for all (4) of my loyal readers:  http://rhodeislandread.blogspot.com/2010/02/chicken-surprise-for-loyal-readers-only.html


I spent a lot of time on it and I thought everyone would love it and we could have a lot of deep conversations over all the great blogs out there and further the character development of Pearl Annabelle Lafleur.  But nobody read it.  I waited two whole days.  This is me waiting:

 


So then I posted this:  http://rhodeislandread.blogspot.com/2010/02/well-isnt-it-ironic-little-too-ironic.html
to remind my loyal readers to not take me for granted because I do have feelings and all, and also to alert them to the original post.  I could have just sent a direct email to all four of them. Since one of them is my daughter, I could have just said something to her.  But I like to do things the hard way whenever possible so writing a second post that, as fate would have it, no one would read within the next 24 hours, seemed like the way to go.  Here I am waiting for someone to read my second post and not getting any younger:

And then I began posting my own comments because nobody was out there. They were all busy fawning over their Valentine's Day roses, I guess:

Get it ??

Anyway....

But then, Anonymous saved me from myself. Anonymous left a comment:

Anonymous said...

Chicken,


Stop drinking the bong water. Anna, Alanis, and Tiger do not read your blog. I do, however, and I am way better than any of them.

And now enquiring Chickens want to know...Who was Anonymous??

My first thought was:

 of course and FINALLY. But reality hit and I realized Bruce is probably a little too busy to go about searching for the best hidden blog on the blogosphere.

So then I thought:

 He got my tweet and decided to check in? Prince would definitely think he was "way better", so that part made sense. But then I realized that Prince is so "Way Better" that he would not be looking on anyone's blog but his own.

Okay, not a Rockstar. That leaves friends and bloggers. I have my suspicions.

Come forth Oh Anonymous and be immortalized and rewarded.

Hopefully, you have realized that this post is me learning how to enhance my blog.  I'm going to post now-let's see what happens.  I'm getting scary messages about errors....

Which Came First? Chicken or Egg?

Dear World:

Sorry for my little snit. I wasn't really that upset. Just having some fun and creating some drama for myself. That's what us middle chickens do.

I've just returned from a trip through blogger world; triple the fun of Disney at a smidgen of the price. I've come to the conclusion that I need some bells and whistles and other stuff I don't know the names of. All the really great blogs I've seen have things in common-there are photogaphs, videos, multiple pages. One blog even has secret hidden stuff, like a Dan Brown novel, only much more fun and with no self-flagellating albinos. As soon as I have time to sit down and figure it out I'll be growing up. So to speak.

In the meantime, I've been thinking about the condition of the human being. You know, all that stuff that is built into our DNA.

Three things that stand out about being human (as opposed to being a brick or something along those lines) are eating, procreating, and digestion.

Think about the importance we put on these activities; the ads, the books, the magazines, television....does it ever seem to you as though we all have an unnatural focus on these subjects? Does it seem as though it is all we ever think about? Does it sometimes feel...silly?

I'm not touching the procreation thing, not tonight. But feel free if you are inspired.

(Cue Twilight Zone Music)

Imagine a parallel universe. Imagine there's no need to eat to sustain one's self. I know you are thinking about the Beatles right now. Focus for one minute. So...no food, which means no restaurants, no grocery stores, no cooking shows, or cook books and no "Biggest Loser". It means no indigestion, no constipation, no munchies, no diarrhea, no throwing up, and no Peptol Bismol.

What it also means is no focus at a party and that means people walking around totally bored, without the anchor of food or alcohol (oh yes, friends, if there is no need to consume, there is no alcohol). Sure, there is small talk. Sure, the guest of honor is important. But what? No Fucking Ziti? (My favorite line ever from "The Sopranos", episode ohhh I don't know. Young Anthony.)

Without the need to eat would we would have any socialization at all? Is the need to eat the precursor to the need to procreate? Or vice-versa?

Which did come first? The Chicken or the Egg? And since they are both edible, is this really a relevant question?

I'm sure this is all documented somewhere. Probably Freud has it covered.

Take Care,
Chicken