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.
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Fear not, my son, for all will be well!! You should be aware an internal plucking is far less serious than an external plucking......which leads directly to the hot box that is definitely not in the sky!! As for your concern regarding the possibility of your son becoming an orphan, trust me when I tell you an orphaned egg is a far worse fate. Examples: ending up in hot water, becoming a Humpty Dumpty, etc. Look on the bright side.........you're gonna get a day away from your poopy coop!! GOOD LUCK & remember the acorn doesnt fall far from the tree??
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