Posted by: deadmousediaries | October 27, 2009

Another Dead Chicken by the Side of the Road – some speculation from Mitchell Kyd

   We’ve all seen it: a ruffled little carcass lying by the side of the road, no farm in sight. Where did that little body come from, you ponder.  If you’ve ever passed a trucker hauling crates of chickens on their way to a hot date at the Fryer’s Club, you know where it came from. But how???

   The USDA reports that seven billion chickens are produced in this country every year.  That’s billion with a b. You’ve never seen a span of chicken wire nailed up behind the KFC so you know they have to be moved somehow from A to B and on to KFC.  The USDA also reports bluntly:  “Poultry does not travel well,”  and this new casualty confirms it.

   What I don’t really understand is how they get out of those wire cages while en route.  If one can get out, why not all?  Have some of them  understudied with  David Blaine?  Are the ones that do manage to escape those famous boneless chickens we’re all so crazy about? Is it just another random act of  fowl play?

   Traveling conditions can’t be great if you’re a chicken and I imagine the quarters are pretty cramped. Body contact must be unavoidable and we all know how testy we get on a long subway commute so I’ve imagined something like this…

   Chicken #1, a hen named Shelby, is engaged in conversation when chicken #2 bumps up against her in a rather suggestive way.  The full-breasted hen has been dealing all her life with longing glances and rude remarks about her size and weight and she’s in no mood now to accept advances.   For chicken #2, the run-in is purely incidental.  He is a capon after all and has no idea what lay beneath her feathers in any location nor has he any philandering intentions.  (For the uninitiated, capons are the eunuchs of the poultry world.)

   The first time it happens, she swings around and burns him with her beady little chicken eyes.  He backs off — until the next separation in the concrete highway throws him against her for the second time.  She flys around in a blur of white and delivers a strategic strike to the top of his head.  He’d like to rub the spot and ease the pain, but it’s impossible.  There is no room to even raise a wing and despite the hype, there is no such thing as chicken fingers.

   The poor schmuck isn’t even bright enough to see it coming. At the third incident she grabs him at the throat and in a gravely voice coming deep from within her gizzard she whispers:

   “Leonard, I swear. (The capon’s name is Leonard.) You touch me there one more time and I will throw your ass on the side of the road so fast you’ll think I’m Lorena Bobbitt.”

   Poor Leonard.  The universe has conspired against him and true to her word, she let’s him have it.  The driver fails to negotiate a pothole and jostles the cargo one more time and  Bam! Leonard is now just possum fodder. 

    Thirty miles down the road, Shelby is still regaling all those around her with the tale of her prowess as the author of Leonard’s untimely demise.  Her cratemate Lucille is in the midst of a yet another power surge as the truck grinds to a halt for road work up ahead.  The heat is stifling and she swings around to face Shelby.  She has had enough.

   “Shelby, I swear if you tell that story one more time, I will push your big-busted, plump-thighed carcass out of this crate and send it flying into the middle of next week.”

   Shelby knows naught of discretion.

   And Bam! There’s another dead chicken by the side of the road.

   As for Lucille, she was remanded straight to Burger King where we know she belongs.  After all, they are currently advertising their new promotion, Angry Chicken.

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Responses

  1. Too Funny!

  2. Nice speculation!
    I feel sad to see the dead ones by the side of the road or (worse) in the middle of my lane.
    Thanks for your wonderful writing.


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