Chickens—salad or grain?
Preferred on December 29, 2024.
When I’m late, I am late! “A week late and seven dollars short,” as my grandpooty would say. Twenty Twenty-Four will be dead in three days. Then the dreaded… Twenty Twenty-Five… will slouch its way into our calendars and make my life miserable for 365 days.
Wednesday—Christmas. I decked the halls. I bowed my hollies. I drank 8,180 mℓ of eggnog. I even jingled my bells. But when I tried to jingle Nurdlebutts’s bells, she tried to scratch my face off. So I jingled Becasue’s bells instead. (And Thursday was when the world’s most infamous dick chase came to an end in 1980, some say.)
I made a chicken salad but it turns out they prefer grain.
Later, I found that someone had moved my ice cubes from the top shelf where I keep them. This filled me with confusion, then anxiety, anger, panic, and finally ice—after I located them on the bottom shelf and scarfed them down in a frenetic reverie of relief.
That day concluded with a bang and a whimper.
I had a nightmare where I was wearing my chicken suit but it didn’t fool anyone—especially Mike the Headless Chicken (a grain lover himself), who tried to peck my eyes out for my pseudo-galline blasphemy. Except, being headless, he didn’t have a beak—and I didn’t have eyes! Then it got really weird: I woke up and I really was in my chicken suit.
Those 8,180 mℓ of spiked eggnog may have been a mistake.
I made a potato salad but it turns out they prefer grain, too. Becasue was now mad at me again—too. When she discovered I had potatoes in the house, she threatened to rip my bells off. (At least she didn’t find the potato juice hidden behind those ice trays!)
I retreated to the living room and tried to settle into my easy chair. Yet—after my Hopeless Slack-Ass® had burned to the ground—all I had left were hard chairs. I shrugged and turned on the TV. A Hunger Games remake directed by Lars von Trier and starring Ron Jeremy was on. I shrugged. It didn’t make sense; it didn’t have to.
Eventually it was over—thank doG it was over!—and I further retreated into the mancave in my sub-basement. That's where I keep my potatoes secreted away from prying eyes (and girls who hail from the corn capital of West Virginia!). And again my potatoes demanded more grain. They eyed me from beyond that low horizon. I jingled my bells wanly. There was no escaping them and their dozens of unblinking green eyes. Here I was with a bucket of sand and one of salt… but nary one of grain was to be found. Then things stopped jingling. The knobbiest potato suddenly lurched across the horizon and leapt at me, snarling—
[Feetnote: The end of the world has been postponed due to lack of interest. But the year will still end next Tuesday, like it or not.]