I knew 2009 would be a good year. The bane of my existence, retarted chicken, finally kicked the bucket this week. (Picture me doing a happy dance right now) I've schemed for two years on how to off this feathered fiend, but in the end she thwarted me by dying on her own. I'm not crazy or an animal abuser. I love animals, really. With two exceptions- cows and chickens. I'm afraid of cows, much to the amusement of several of the men that I work with, and I just plain hate chickens-they're mean.
I know this sounds odd so let me explain. I spent 5-6 years in elementary/middle school living on a faux farm. Faux because we had cows and chickens. That was it. We didn't have any other livestock nor did we plant and grow food. Just stupid cows and chickens. I'm scared of cows because I almost got trampled by several of them one day. They're big and stupid which equals dangerous in my book. And I hate chickens because they're mean. It was my chore to collect the eggs from the hens each day. I had to go in with a wiffle bat because apparently hens get seriously pissed off when you try to take their eggs. Very traumatic experiences I promise.
But there's always a silver lining. I have two very impressive skills that I can list on my resume thanks to those experiences. 1. I am the reigning champion of 4-wheeler cow tipping, and 2. I can knock a chicken over 50 feet away with a wiffle bat. (It's all about a proper swing.) See-aren't you impressed?
Now that my phobia and hatred is fully explained, back to retarted chicken. Jeremy thought it would be hilarious to get me a few baby chicks a couple of years ago for my birthday. A gag gift that he promises to NEVER EVER repeat. Chicken #1 died a mysterious death . . . but retarted chicken hung in there for a few years despite my many attempts to feed her to Dakota.
So, in remembrance of retarted chicken I'm going to take a moment . . . . to decide what I'm going to order tomorrow when I go to Chick-fil-a to celebrate! Grilled or breaded? Ha!!