MY FINAL CLUCK?

I do not want to alarm my millions of readers, but this Friday may be the last time I scratch the earth looking for chicken feed and defecating in an open field. That’s right, on Friday I will be going under the knife.

Do not be misled by the happy-go-lucky photo that accompanies my profile, for I will be having a very serious operation. The survival rate is low. I of course will be heavily sedated, and if I should pass away I hope to reunite with all my fellow clucks who were sold to KFC and are now in that giant nest in the sky, wingless and dripping with barbecue sauce.

You see, it is my misfortune to suffer from a rare malady that the finest medical experts in the land have defined as a wisencalia toothalia, or in English, a “wisdom tooth.” I know--I never heard of such a strange, exotic thing either. I happen to have a mutated tooth far back in my mouth that has decided to grow out of my gum sidesaddle. It speaks to me at night, but it is not my friend.

As you can probably guess, this has been quite traumatic for my loved ones. My wife, Henrietta, can barely look me in the eye, her insane laughter masking the tears deep within her skinless, hormone-free, boneless breast.

Because she cannot bear these tragic circumstances, she is leaving the day before my operation for a spa retreat so she can cope with the possible loss appropriately. We all deal with tragedy in our own way. She is being accompanied by Rory, the strapping new rooster next door, just in case she isn’t strong enough to make the trip alone.

Upon my demise, I instructed Henrietta to bury my pecker in our nest, so that she can sit on it and think of me.

My littlest peep, Clucky, is becoming traumatized, as there is nothing sadder than being an orphaned chicken. He has been burying himself in his latest video game, not even looking up when I enter the coop. I know he too is afraid of bursting into tears. Or losing his place in the game.

As for yours truly, I have been praying day and night to the Mystic Chicken that I will survive this procedure. I suppose my biggest concern is this: Why would I have a wisdom tooth since it’s common knowledge that chickens have no teeth?

Hmm, I hope this doctor isn’t some sort of quack.

"DEAR EGGY" ...More Advice from a Poultry Perspective

Dear Eggy,

I have been married to “Stan” for five years now, and he has been a good rooster and a fine role model to my little peeps. Lately, however, I have noticed a difference in him. His once robust and hearty crowing is now a limp caw. I heard he has been fighting other roosters lately, and I know that is illegal. Furthermore, some of my friends have told me he’s been seen dust bathing with other hens, and I have notice some strangely scented feathers in my nest lately. Next thing I know, he’ll be visiting the red-light hatcheries. When I confronted him, he gave me the lame excuse that all chickens look alike. Stan is still the only cock for me, but I don’t know what to do.

Signed,
Clucked Up

Dear Clucked Up,

It seems that Stan is having a lack of confidence due to his impotent cock-a-doodle-doo. He is fighting other roosters in order to prove his manhood to himself. Be assured that this is just a phase. I suggest you be extra nice to him. Compliment him on his pecker. Send the peeps out to the slaughterhouse for an evening so you too can be alone and then surprise him by wearing a sexy thong. As far as seeing other hens: Hello! We do look alike. The thong should put the kibosh on that.

CONFESSIONS OF A CHICKENSHIT

Full disclosure time.

I can’t believe I am writing this, because it’s something I have never told anyone, and yet here I am ready to reveal a most embarrassing, humiliating thought to the millions of people who read this very blog.

Some of you may find it offensive. Others may think it is unbelievably inane. Still others may vomit uncontrollably. If this latter reaction includes you, you should probably high-tail it to the nearest pharmacia, pronto.

OK, enough hype. Here it is.

I don’t know about where you live, but in my neck of the ‘burbs, there is a unique phenomenon whenever I go to the movie theater, or as some of you may call it, “the picture show.” After first failing to pass myself off as a child, and then hunching over and pretending to be a senior citizen, I finally pay for my adult ticket and proceed to the inside of the theater. And that’s when it happens.

The guy taking my ticket and (inexplicably) tearing it in half, is 90 percent of the time retarded. I don’t mean that he’s not retarded the other 10 percent of the day; I mean that 9 times out of 10 the ticket taker is retarded.

(Disclaimer: I know the word "retarded" is not politically correct. Trust me, my heart goes out to these people. They have my empathy. My goal in this little story is to not pick on defenseless people less fortunate than I. Rather, my goal is to point out the shortcomings of my own thought process.)

Now first of all, let’s be honest. We usually go to the movies to escape. Right before I enter that darkened suppository of magical dreams, do I really want to be reminded that there are less fortunate people in this world?

I was looking for a little escapism, or perhaps some mental or emotional stimulation. But now I have to start worrying about all the retarded people in the world: Do they ever go to the movies? Would they even understand them? Is management paying them a salary or just giving them free popcorn for currency? Is “retarded” the right word? What does the world look like to them?

Hey, I just want to see some explosions and car chases and if I’m lucky maybe a breast or two, OK?

But this is not what I am leading up to, for I miraculously am able to shake off these sincere concerns for the less fortunate pretty easily and still enjoy the flick.

No, here’s the embarrassing part. When the retarded ticket-taker rips my ticket in half and hands it back to me with his gnarled hand and fingers, I am nervously extra-cautious that his fingers don’t touch mine, because…I AM AFRAID HIS RETARDATION IS CONTAGIOUS!

OH SHIT! IF HE TOUCHES ME, I MAY BECOME RETARDED, TOO!

Now, I think I have average intelligence, perhaps maybe a little above average, especially on Tuesdays. I didn’t attend a prestigious college, I didn’t take advanced classes in high school, and please don’t ask me any questions about history, geography, or math. But I think I have good common sense, am tolerant, and can figure things out on a regular basis. In addition, the more trivial and insignificant the information, the more likely I am to know it. No brag, just fact.

What I’m trying to say is: I am fully aware that mental retardation is not contagious. And yet, every time this poor soul hands me back my stub, I am careful that I DON’T MAKE PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH HIM.

I fully admit to being germ-phobic. Not OCD, but a little germ-phobic. That at least makes some sense, because you can catch a cold or other malady through physical contact.

But there is no study anywhere, not even in Peru or Sri Lanka, that proves you can become retarded by touching another retarded person.

And yet, I still recoil, and I want to know why. Is it simply a germa-phobic reaction? Or is it possible that I’m just being a retard?

"THIS IS PAUL HARVEY DEAD. STAND BY FOR WORMS!"

We all heard the news just days ago that golden-throated, dulcet-toned, and chicken-headed radio commentator Paul Harvey went to the giant sound booth in the sky, where he will annoy the shit out of angels with his annoying, affected delivery, making the ethereal beings wish they were dancing with demons instead.

After becoming an acolyte of infamous red-baiting slanderer Joseph McCarthy and being second in line as the presidential running mate for uber-goober-rascist George Wallace, Harvey used his radio broadcasts to communicate news stories of dubious credibility and pitch crappy products to the following vulnerable poor souls:

The arthritic
The bald
The incontinent
The near blind
The aged
The denture-wearers
The premature ejaculators
The erectile dysfunctional
The deaf
The physically disabled
The constipated
The migraine sufferer
…You get the idea

Future News Flash:
Hordes of arthritic, toothless, constipated citizens wandered aimlessly along the streets of major American cities today. Clyde Beakman, professor of Pathetic Population Studies at Cal State Beaverville, believes this bizarre onslaught is the result of the death of Paul Harvey. "We have lost our leader," one wanderer mumbled. "I don't know where to buy my products now."

One of Paul Harvey’s most popular features was “The Rest of the Story,” in which he would tell a supposedly true story that had a surprise ending.

You may remember one in particular about a railroad worker who lived with his companion for many years. It was just the two of them, working together, playing cards, watching each other’s backs, having long talks, reading aloud to each other, making dinner for each other, etc. The surprise ending? The railroad worker’s companion was…a chicken.

Now you know “The Nest of the Story.” Good day!

DEAR EGGY

Dear Eggy,

I was scratching around in Farmer Moishe’s field the other day when I ate something quite unusual. It was yellow and fluffy and unlike the feed that I usually consume…day after day, month after month, year after year. Only later did I realize that I had actually eaten some scrambled eggs that somehow found their way from the kitchen table to my grazing space. I know it was just an accident but the scary part is that I thought they were delicious! Eggy, does this make me some sort of animal?

Signed,
Cannibal Cluck

Dear Cannibal Cluck,

This is unusual, but not unheard of. I once knew a goose who swallowed some foie gras, and he was a fine bird, well respected and sergeant-at-wings of the Goose Council. Of course, when the other geese found out, they disemboweled him, leaving him honkless. My advice to you is: Stick to the regular delicious feed and don’t tell the other hens what you did. Nibbling on some Easter Peeps candy may help you wean yourself, but don’t get caught or you will be totally plucked.