sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

I've been thinking, quite a bit lately, about the history of chickens. Deep metaphysical questions aside concerning the order of appearance of the aforementioned chicken or it's slightly more round, slightly more smooth, slightly more reticent counterpart, the egg; what have they been up to, where have they been, where do they think they're going, how do they feel about sometimes being confused for pigeons (albeit not by the brightest of people), and why?
The deep metaphysical question that everyone asks is all fine and good, I have no problem with cause, effect, and divine mysteries (though picturing a chicken at the heart of a divine mystery somehow doesn't quite preserve that feeling of awe and wonderment you might expect from something called a divine mystery, and yes, I'm thinking of a live chicken, when visualising, and not, say, a roasted one, which is definitely not going to give many people a vaguely religious experience, despite the arguments and advertisements of chicken-sellers on the tele), it's just a bit off the mark, you might say. Or I might say. It's all about the details, the practicality of the process. Asking 'How'd it go?' or 'How's it going?' seems infinitely more productive than 'Wait, all right, who jumped the queue?'
So, chickens.
They seem relatively harmless (if not gormless). They also seem relatively happy, in a chicken sort of way. I have minor qualms about the way they eat, but I'm sure, were I to live around that sort of environment (that one being one filled with chickens, chickens who, presumably, would be eating at some point or another, unless they had a nervous habit about not wanting to eat while someone else was sitting around, not joining in, knowing that I couldn't bring myself to join in, and themselves, wanting to be polite, ah, cruel Fate!), I'd get used to it at some point.
I'm not entirely sure, as I haven't consulted any real chicken authorities, or chickens, themselves, recently, of where they're going, nor how they feel about being mistaken for pigeons, occasionally, but I'm guessing, from their happy demeanour, that they're coming from a relatively good place, and the whole pigeon thing really doesn't worry them terribly. Which is nice, I'm glad it's all seemed to have worked out for them.
I, however, reserve the right to retract that, should I be pecked to death by chickens, or pigeons, or should any of them attempt to swindle me out of a large sum of money.

disclaimer:
We take no responsibility for our actions, the actions of Billy the Kid, Al Capone, or for the weather.
We will accept cheques, however, to accept responsibility for minor acts of revenge, most credit cards, and tuna mayonnaise sandwiches.


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			Hello, Hello
	archives horoscopes contacts fables home		I've been thinking, quite a bit lately, about the history of chickens. Deep metaphysical questions aside concerning the order of appearance of the aforementioned chicken or it's slightly more round, slightly more smooth, slightly more reticent counterpart, the egg; what have they been up to, where have they been, where do they think they're going, how do they feel about sometimes being confused for pigeons (albeit not by the brightest of people), and why? The deep metaphysical question that everyone asks is all fine and good, I have no problem with cause, effect, and divine mysteries (though picturing a chicken at the heart of a divine mystery somehow doesn't quite preserve that feeling of awe and wonderment you might expect from something called a divine mystery, and yes, I'm thinking of a live chicken, when visualising, and not, say, a roasted one, which is definitely not going to give many people a vaguely religious experience, despite the arguments and advertisements of chicken-sellers on the tele), it's just a bit off the mark, you might say. Or I might say. It's all about the details, the practicality of the process. Asking 'How'd it go?' or 'How's it going?' seems infinitely more productive than 'Wait, all right, who jumped the queue?' So, chickens. They seem relatively harmless (if not gormless). They also seem relatively happy, in a chicken sort of way. I have minor qualms about the way they eat, but I'm sure, were I to live around that sort of environment (that one being one filled with chickens, chickens who, presumably, would be eating at some point or another, unless they had a nervous habit about not wanting to eat while someone else was sitting around, not joining in, knowing that I couldn't bring myself to join in, and themselves, wanting to be polite, ah, cruel Fate!), I'd get used to it at some point. I'm not entirely sure, as I haven't consulted any real chicken authorities, or chickens, themselves, recently, of where they're going, nor how they feel about being mistaken for pigeons, occasionally, but I'm guessing, from their happy demeanour, that they're coming from a relatively good place, and the whole pigeon thing really doesn't worry them terribly. Which is nice, I'm glad it's all seemed to have worked out for them. I, however, reserve the right to retract that, should I be pecked to death by chickens, or pigeons, or should any of them attempt to swindle me out of a large sum of money. disclaimer: We take no responsibility for our actions, the actions of Billy the Kid, Al Capone, or for the weather. We will accept cheques, however, to accept responsibility for minor acts of revenge, most credit cards, and tuna mayonnaise sandwiches.

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