From my recollections of scanning the personal ads it seemed everyone was endowed with beauty genes and a sense of humour. Both of those traits are subjective. I happen to think I’m funny. Not necessarily the rollicking, knee-slapping, rolling on the floor variety, but rather the understated wit characteristic of us polite Canadians. I’ve tried to inject a bit of lightheartedness here when possible, but necropsies and health emergencies don’t seem the appropriate time to crack a joke, though I have been known for a streak of dark humour.
The next post was not composed by my alter ego, but by another chicken keeper from south of the border, where apparently funny is expected to garner out loud, raucous laughter. At least it did for me, and that’s why I reached out to its author, Heide Royer, and asked if she’d like to contribute to Bitchin’ Chickens with some much needed levity that reminds us just how fun it can be having chickens. Enjoy and check out her future offerings.
“My whole life – at least for the past 46 years – I’ve been hearing from my mother that she was dying (mind you, she’s still alive and kicking at the age of 83). Three of those years, I was too busy scribbling cartoon flowers on walls and stabbing doodle bugs with chewed off Barbie feet while playing in the backyard. I know, what girl didn’t do this?
I do feel because of my experiences with her I took on somewhat of a dramatic personality. I sing loudly like I’m auditioning for American Idol at least twice daily. I rock out with my guitar like I was performing live on stage at Heidepalooza in front of 10,000 super desperate and bored fans. I cry at every animal movie, cartoon or not. I mean why did Nemo’s mom have to die? WTF Pixar? He’s going to be clown fish caviar now! But when I tell you I felt like I was dying this day, I mean ‘grab the barn shovel and dig my earthly grave because the angels and baby Jesus are about to scoop me up off this chicken coop floor’ type of dying, I am not kidding or being dramatic (ok fine, adult Jesus). All over a bad egg.
It was coop cleaning day. I look forward to these days as much as I do going in for a routine colonoscopy. Problem is, as I’m sure most everyone here can attest to, is that by the end of it all, you may have the satisfaction of a clean coop, but you feel like the bottom of a Chicago dumpster, guarantee you smell like one, and every one of your pores gives off the air of being filled with some disgusting poo particle.
I remember a few months back finding a stray egg in the coop after I had already gathered them up for the day, but then got distracted. One of my turkeys was trying to gooch me in the cooter again while I was bending over (I have a repeat offender and she’s going to therapy for it) and I ended up putting it on a shelf so I could cover my bum with both hands and shoo my poultry perv away. Before I knew it one of the chickens had knocked the egg off the ledge and it landed, unbroken, in a corner. Over several months, it had gotten covered over by kicked up pine shavings and probably more poo so I completely forgot about it.
No big deal right? Wrong, it’s a big friggin’ deal.
Raking the coop out, I caught a glimpse of a dark, green shell in the corner. Oh, a sweet little gem that my darling Bee Gee has left me. She’s the only one of my olive eggers and my favorite hen so I better pick it up. Bent down gently, picked up the precious egg, smiled a loving smile and watched as this black-souled demon substance burst forth and exploded all over my arms.
Now, I believe in heaven and hell, and if this is anything like what’s down there with Satan, my a$$ will be seated in the first pew at church, waving my hands up in the air to glorify God almighty and sing worship songs to the rafters with chubby pre-pubescent 5th graders every Sunday and Wednesday. I promise you that because this was nothing short of straight up devil bile. (Side note: that’s where the youth group sits in case you thought I was being creepy.)
Wondering if I needed to get Bee Gee exorcised first by Father Joseph or take myself to the ER, (remember that ‘being dramatic’ paragraph?), I attempted to wipe it off of myself. Problem is, my dumb a$$ didn’t have anything to wipe it off with and due to my state of shock I simply used my hands. All that accomplished was literally smearing this black oil resembling, slimy, and by far stinkiest solution that I have ever been privy to encountering (and I’ve raised three boys as a single mom so I’ve seen and smelled more than most ever should), around like I was trying to cover my scent from the walking dead so they wouldn’t notice my human smell and start chomping down immediately on my still full of winter snacks body. I’m 100% certain no zombies would have even glanced in my direction after this. In fact, they might have thrown themselves into the fire just to get away from me.
Here I am, now walking towards the house, arms stretched out in front of me, making the worst, gnarled up looking facial expressions and muttering a sound very similar to “aghhhhhh haaaa ehhhhh, aghhhhh, ughhhhhhh”, when my child meets me at the door. I’m not sure if it was the black goo or my horror ridden, contorted face, but he did what any loving son would do in that instance. He locked the f-ing door and ran off. Oh my freaking Juggling Jehoshaphats. See what I did there? I didn’t curse where I normally would have unleashed like a drunken sailor because you know I’m trying to get in good with Jesus now.
I went to the side door and discovered it too was locked. I proceeded to do what any middle aged woman with somewhat larger than average boobs would do to rectify the situation. I crawled through the doggy door and got stuck. Sh*t. Sorry, Lord, one day at a time.
Now, I’m one arm and half a titty in, with rotten egg running down my arms, yelling angrily for my son to come help me, clawing at the air with my functioning appendage like I was trying to snatch the last Peach Tea Snapple ever made from the top of a Walmart shelf. He took one look around the corner and attempted to turn back around, I’m sure fearful that all of those movies he insisted on watching during Halloween, were now manifesting in his life. I managed to stop him in his tracks when I did the ‘not playing with you boy’ speak, you know the kind where you talk through your teeth, lose all knowledge of vowels, and take on a low guttural tone which stops any and all children from doing whatever it was they were doing. It’s a great verbal scud missile, available only to mothers, to launch in circumstances such as these.
Between the two of us, I managed to wriggle free, went straight to the bathroom, disrobed quicker than an Alabama prom queen on coronation night, and decontaminated myself in the shower with an assortment of goat milk soaps, shampoos, and Dawn extra strength dishwashing liquid. I also vowed to remove any extra pads that were included in my bra (Why do they do that anyhow? You think going from a D to a D.25 is really doing anything aside from getting you stuck in doggy doors?? Ugh! Honestly) and called it a day.
I will leave you with this profound quote from Rick Grimes, Walking Dead Season 5: “I don’t take chances anymore.” And neither should you: Take all the eggs while you can! Save yourselves!!”
Love and quiches to all and to all a good night, The Puerto Rican Poultry Princess.
Bio: Heide Royer is the artist behind Heidinmyworld of Art. Her creative passion lies within the animal world and is expressed through her visually compelling artwork. She is also an aspiring writer telling stories of her chicken farm life in a new book entitled “All Cooped Up – My Life with Chickens During A Pandemic”. Filled with crazy antics and a lot of fowl play. It’s sure to bring laughter to any poultry loving household.
Feature photo credit: Getty Images
Sorry you are in a patch of struggling, but thanks for sharing such a good laugh. Laughter is very healing.
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That is one of the funniest stories I have ever read!
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This was a fantastic and quite humorous read….
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