And Then One Day I Killed A Chicken

The little boy peered into the bucket. Above it, a chicken hung by its feet, bleeding out from the openings in its neck.

“That is so cool.”

I had driven about an hour to be here, the last two miles of it unpaved, making only one wrong turn the whole way. I was greeted by a friendly woman named Joanne and a big black dog whose name I didn’t catch. With me, I’d brought a cooler with ice, some plastic freezer bags, and a cardboard box with holes cut in it to allow the chicken inside to get some air.

The place was Eden’s Cove Farm, a family-owned joint down in Cedar Creek, Texas, about an hour Southeast of Austin.

“Eden’s Cove, huh?” said a friend of mine. “Sounds like a, like a -”

“Like a place you’d go for a pretty righteous orgy, huh?”

There were no orgies in process when I rolled through the gate, though given the place’s remote location, you could probably get downright Roman with it were you so inclined.

But folks weren’t here for bacchanalia. My wife and I have been raising chickens in our backyard for about a year now, and it’s mostly been a success. Yes, they made the backyard look like a dustbowl and we ended up replacing all our grass, but we also have more eggs than we know what to do with, and it gives us a way to show the boys that food, you know, comes from somewhere, not just the grocery store. And that was really as far as we ever thought we would take it.

Except we would occasionally titter around the subject - that’s right, I said titter - the subject of turning our birds into meat. Where does one learn such a skill? Would we even be able to do it? Personally, I’ve never had much doubt about the latter concern. The thought of actually doing it myself just never made me all that squeamish. Make of that what you will. But the how? That was a different mater. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you want to learn from a book or off the internet. Imagine trying to scroll down a webpage with your hands covered in chicken insides.

And that’s where the good people at Eden’s Cove came in. They offer these processing days where you can bring out your birds and they let you use their facilities, and if you’ve never done it before, they’ll teach you how.

“You wanna do it?” asked my wife.

"Sign me up.”

Aside from the people that worked at the farm, I think just about everybody there was from Austin. Some were there just to use the equipment, others, like me, were there to learn, while some were there just to observe, to see if it looked like a task to which they might be up. And then, of course, some of them were kids whose parents dragged them along. Some of the kids seemed interested in the proceedings, others seemed more interested in following around the flock of turkeys that was hanging out nearby.

You’ll notice this post isn’t heavy on the pictures. I had intended to snap a few, but once they started in on the demo, it seemed like the kind of thing that I should pay real attention to rather than watching it through the screen of my phone. And then once I started in on my own bird, my hands got kinda gunky, and who needs gunk on their phone? The only pictures I snapped were of that dog that greeted me.

And this old rusty tractor that I passed by on the dirt road on the way to the farm that caught my eye. Look, see? This should provide you with a bit of what they call “a sense of place.” 

The processing area was covered by a roof and open on three sides. There was equipment storage in the back, a counter with a sink, and a series of tables. It was all immaculately clean. Off to one side, strung between two of the wooden support beams was a thick clothesline, from which hung several thin ropes with loops at their ends.

A guy named Kevin did the demo. He had long red hair pulled into a pony tail and looked like he could be an extra on Game of Thrones or the like. He started with a hen so massive, it reminds you that, yes, indeed, these squawking clucking creatures are descended from dinosaurs, and who are we to say they’ve forgotten their lineage? He put her legs in one of the loops and pulled it tight, then placed a bucket beneath her. Us cityfolk circled in close, kids up front, as he showed us where to make the cut, then proceeded to place knife to neck. 

Kevin held her still while she shook through a few death throes. Once she settled, he did a couple more the same way, then took them all down and plunged them, one by one, into large pots of hot water to loosen up the feathers. Then it was time for the plucker. No, the plucker is not a person who sits in the corner pulling feathers and moaning “aw, why do I always gotta pluck the chickens?” It’s a big metal cylinder that’s lined on the inside with what can only be described as rubber fingers. You toss the birds in, flip a switch, and it swirls them around like a washing machine. A minute later, plucked birds come out. Efficiency. 

“I got chicken blood on my finger!” It was the same kid from earlier. He was holding up his finger for me to see.

After observing a bit longer, I decided I was ready. I got my bird out of her traveling box. I put her feet through the loops of one of the lines and tightened it, at which point she stopped squawking and hung still. Most of the birds did that. Kevin showed me one more time where to make the cut...and then I did.

I only got a drop or two of blood on my hands, just enough to bring some Macbeth jokes to mind, though I kept them to myself. The bird’s flapping lasted a few seconds before she settled and I took her down. Water, plucker, then over to the processing table where Joanne walked me through it. No need to go into the details, but to sum it up, it’s basically, “cut here and here, reach in, pull this stuff out, don’t break that green thing.”

“Are those lungs?”

“Those are lungs. Good job.”

While I was pulling out the guts, I noticed something that looked egg yolk mixed in. I felt around and, sure enough, there was an egg, along with a couple of yolks that were going to be eggs. Giving right up until the end.

Following the removal of the legs and a bit of clean-up, I bagged up the bird and put her on ice. I cleaned up my utensils and my work area and washed up. I was done.

That wasn’t so hard.

And it really wasn’t, which is one of the things that struck me most, that when it was all said and done, the whole experience both was and wasn’t that big of a deal. On the one hand, the process was pretty simple and straightforward, I didn’t have a problem with any of it, and I would definitely do it again. On the other hand, I took a being’s life, and even if that being was just a chicken, such a thing should not be taken lightly. Of course, I’ve done just that millions of times over the course of my life, horking down food with barely a thought to where it came from and all the things that had to happen for it to reach me. Putting myself right there at the start of the process and doing the work on my own made it impossible to do that.

Now then, who’s hungry?

Preventative Measures

The best part of having a little brother is that he’s slower than me because I’m faster than him because I’m bigger because I’m five and he’s only three. I was born before he was. He came out of my mommy’s tummy after I did, when I was three, and then I turned four, but now I’m five. Simie is three.

I can run faster than him because I’m bigger and I have superfast shoes. Simie has Spider Man on his shoes, but mine are still faster. They’re superfast.

When Daddy chases us, he can catch Simie easier than he can catch me because Simie is slower than me, so Daddy can catch him first. Sometimes Daddy does The Monster and he chases us. When I’m big, I’m going to be faster than Daddy and he won’t be able to pick me up anymore and I’ll be able to pick him up because I’ll be bigger than him. I’ll be able to pick up Simie too.

Ack-shoo-uh-lee, I can already pick up Simie. The other day I picked him up and put him on the potty so he could go poop but then Daddy had to come wipe him because I can’t do that yet.

Sometimes people that are not as old as you can be bigger than you and that’s okay. Like my friend Bella. She was born after I was, so she’s not as many as me yet. She was born in April. She’s four. But she’s a little bit bigger than me, but I’m faster because I’m superfast.

I used to be four, but now I’m five.

I’m really good at Legos. For Christmas, Santa Claus brought me a whole bunch of Legos that were still in their boxes and they came with restructions. I got a castle and a spaceship from Star Wars. It’s Luke’s spaceship with R2-D2. He says bee-boop bop-boo-beep flurp!

Luke Skywalker has a lightsaber. It goes ggzzzzhhhh.

When I was little I used to drink milk out of bottles like a baby but now I drink milk out of a mug because I’m a big boy. Mommy and Daddy use mugs to drink coffee but I drink milk.

Luke is a Jedi. Obi-wan Kenobi is his daddy.

Sometimes I help Mommy in the garden. I like to do that. We grew tomatoes and broccoli. And kale. And we grew a watermelon in the summer but the chickens ate the other watermelon and we ate, uh, we ate the big watermelon. It was like the ones you buy in the store except we grew it in our yard.

The other day when we were working in the garden, um, Simie hit me in the head with a shovel and it made me drop my shovel and I was crying. I thew a rake at him but it missed so I threw a rock and it hit him in the face and he started crying and then we were both crying so Mommy took us inside and gave us a snack and we watched a Spongebob.

We had to put a fence around the garden so the chickens wouldn’t eat it all. Some of the chickens lay blue eggs but they taste the same.

I made the Luke Skywalker spaceship all by myself with my Daddy’s help. He helps me find the pieces and I put them together like it says in the restructions. We made the wings and then put them all together so they looked like a X. That’s why it’s called a X-wing.

The wings shoot lasers at the bad guys. The Death Star shoots big lasers.

We didn’t have a garden at our old house. Simie was born when we were living in our new house so he came from that garden and then he was in Mommy’s belly and then he came out, but I must have been in another garden, and then I was in Mommy’s belly because I was teeny-tiny. But now I’m big.

The castle is big too! My Mommy helped me make it. And Daddy, but first it was Mommy, but then Mommy had to go run some errands so it was me and Daddy and Simie. Simie was playing with his trains in his room while me and Daddy made the castle. He was in his underwear because he took his pants off. Simie sometimes pees his pants and runs around with his pee-pee out. And his butt! Hahahahahahahahahahaha!

Simie broke the train track that we made in our room. Me and Daddy made it together and Simie helped but then while we were making the castle, Simie broke the train tracks and we could hear him throwing the pieces in the box and if he breaks them there won’t be anymore and we won’t have them to play with because they cost a lot of pennies.

I think there were some babies in the garden by where the watermelon used to be. Mommy said that babies come from gardens like the garden we have, so first they’re in the garden and then they’re in their Mommy’s tummies. So I had to get rid of them.

Simie came downstairs and he picked up my Luke Skywalker spaceship and he went zhhooom zhhoom! And then he threw it and it hit the floor and broke into a hundred million pieces. They went everywhere. Daddy yelled and Simie ran back upstairs. Daddy said Simie probably thought the spaceship could really fly.

If I had a spaceship, I would shoot lasers at the bad guys. They’d go pee-ew pee-ew pee-ew! Darth Vader is a bad guy. He lives at the Death Star. He says hhhhoooohhh hhhhaaaaahhh. The Death Star is his house.

Daddy mostly fixed the spaceship, but there was a piece we couldn’t find, but it’ll probably turn up because it has to be around here somewhere. It didn’t just walk off by itself.

Then Simie came downstairs and he took a piece off of my castle and I told him to stop but he wouldn’t stop because he wasn’t listening.

Aren’t you listening, Simie? How is that helping? Do you hear me?

Spongebob has a snail named Gary. He says meow because he thinks he’s a cat.

Sometimes the chickens get in the garden and Mommy and Daddy have to get them out before they eat all of our food. They’ll eat all of it because they like everything. I like broccoli. It’s good for you. It gives you muscles and makes you superfast. Like me.

I always eat all my dinner. You have to eat a good dinner or you’ll shrink and turn back into a baby. Sometimes Simie doesn’t eat a good dinner and Mommy and Daddy tell him that he needs to eat his dinner or he’ll turn back into a baby and have to go back into Mommy’s tummy. Or maybe he’ll have to go back to the garden.

Simie likes to pick up the chickens and Mommy always yells at him because she says he’s going to break their little chicken necks and then they won’t be able to lay eggs for us anymore because they’ll be dead.

Put the chicken down, Simie. Put it down. Aren’t you listening?

I don’t know if any of the chickens ate any of the babies in the garden. If a chicken ate a baby, then it would have the baby in its tummy. And then it would have a baby in an egg.

Simie broke my favorite mug. It had a picture of an owl on it and I used it to drink my milk out of before bed. He threw it from the top of the stairs and it hit the ground and broke into a million pieces and Mommy said we couldn’t fix it because it was broken into too many pieces. Simie said he was sorry but I’m not sorry. Mommy said they would get me another one but that one was my favorite so I’m not sorry.

Mommy and Daddy were still asleep this morning when I came downstairs and Simie was at the Lego table and he had broken my castle because he breaks everything. Mommy and Daddy told him not to mess with the castle but he did anyway so I went outside to the garden and pulled up all the plants so there wouldn’t be anymore babies because babies break everything.

There were keys in the door so I just turned it like Mommy and Daddy do and it unlocked the door so I could go outside. The gate to the garden was already open but I know how to open it. I’m not sure which plants were the babies so I just pulled them all up and threw them on the ground for the chickens. Mommy said the ones by the fence were tomatoes, but tomatoes are red and these had green balls on them, so I pulled them up out of the ground because they might be babies.

I pulled up the ones that Mommy said were broccoli because I didn’t see any broccoli on them because we have broccoli in the freezer so I know what it looks like.

I let the chickens out of their coop so they could come into the garden and eat it up. They came in and started eating it aaaall up.

Then Mommy came outside and she saw me and she yelled at me to stop, but there was another plant that I needed to pull up so I pulled it up and threw it to the chickens and she yelled at me to stop again and then she ran after me and I ran out the gate. The other gate that goes to the front yard. I’m big enough to open it now. She yelled at me to stop, but I kept running because I’m fast.

I’m superfast.

Chicken Business

Happy New Year everybody! Hey, let's skip the part about how I've barely touched this blog thing here lately and jump right into a discussion of chicken business! Exclamation points!

What is chicken business, you ask? Well for starters, it's fun as fuck to say. Go ahead, give it a shot. Say it out loud. If anyone in earshot of you asks what you're doing, just look them in the eye and say it again. 

Chicken business.

Chicken business.

Chickennnnn. Bizzznessss.

That's nice, isn't it? Perhaps it evoked certain images in your head, hmmm? Chickens exchanging currency for goods or services? Little chickens in little business suits squawking over their little deals? A rooster in a limo pulling up to a corner where stands a fake-fur-clear-heel-clad hen of the night? 

Well, you're wrong, dirty and wrong. Chicken business is nothing of the sort. Except, I suppose, when it is.

Here be a picture of a hen:

This is one of our hens. She is of the breed known as Barred Rocks, and she sits at the top of the pecking order among our little flock. She doesn't have a name, but an apt one for her would probably be Busy since she conducts the aforementioned but as yet undefined chicken business.

Here is a picture of a backyard playset:

Ignore the snow. It never snows in Austin except for this one time last winter when it did, so I went around taking pictures of everything with snow all over it. Otherwise I would never just take a picture of a kid's playset, which is why I don't have any non-snow pictures of our playset, which is why you have to look at this one with snow all over it. AHEM!

So every now and then, the Barred Rock hen pictured above, who may be named Busy or Business Time or some such, likes to flap her little wings and transport herself up, up, up into the clubhouse section of the playset. It's amazing, really, the way she navigates herself through the little doorway. None of the other chickens do this trick. It's hers and hers alone. Perhaps it's this kind of initiative that propelled her to the top of the pecking order in the first place.

The boys took note of this little feat one day and asked their mom why the chicken was getting into their clubhouse.

"Oh, she's just doing her chicken business," my wife told them.

But wait, that's not all of it. There's more to chicken business than just that. Because you see, whenever Busy flaps up into the clubhouse and the boys are around to see it, they sound the alarm with a cry of "CHICKEN BUSINESS!" and spring into action. They race up to the clubhouse where one of them scoops the poor girl up in their arms and then, well, from there she meets one of two fates. Either she's thrown out the door that she originally flew in through and has to flap her wings furiously in order to prevent an unpleasant reunion with the ground, or else she gets to take a ride down the slide in the lap of whichever boy picked her up.

And that's what Chicken Business is all about, Charlie Brown.

None Of This Would Be Possible Without Hats

So you folks that are familiar with this Slapdash Flimflammery thing I was tweeting and Facebooking about last weekend can ignore this post, but several of you non-Austin peoples out there expressed some interest in what this was all about, so here goes. 

Back in 2002, Loaded Gun Theory Productions decided to try something a little nuts: writing, rehearsing, and performing a series of short plays in the span of 24 hours. And when I say performing, I mean up on stage, lines memorized, the whole deal. 10:00 on a Friday night, the playwrights lock themselves in the theater. Or they get locked in, depending on your perception. Each writer writes down a single line of dialogue on a note card. This will ultimately be the last line of the play they write. The cards are dropped in a hat and each writer picks, and whichever line they pick is the first line of their play. Picking of one's own card is not allowed. Then, for each actor that is signed up, a note card is placed in a hat, each of which simply says "M" or "F" for the actor's gender. Each writer draws three cards to see what genders they are writing for. So each writer has a first line, a last line, and three gender-identified actors to work with.

With this year being the seventh SDFF, a new element was tossed into the mix: the 7 deadly sins. Each of the deadlies was written on a note card and tossed into, you guessed it, a hat. Each writer chose one, which they were to use as a theme or whatever for their play.

From there, writers write all night, directors show up at 7 AM and draw a writer's name out of a hat to see which script they're directing. We won't even get into all the randomness involved in how they select actors. Actors show up at 8 AM and they rehearse all day, and it all hits the stage that night at 8 PM. Does it work? Let me just say that terms like "magic of the theater" were coined to describe experiences such as this. And this year was one of the best ever. Below is the play that I wrote between 10 PM Friday, September 24th and 6 AM Saturday, September 25th while seated among six other very talented writers. The sin I pulled out of that hat probably won't be hard to guess.

Pecking Order

Eleanor Goldenbelt stands on one side of the stage, prepping, primping, generally obsessing over her appearance. She is readying for her match, and she has a reputation to maintain as both the most beautiful and feared fighter ever to set talon in the ring. Every hair must be in place, every feather glossed and sheened to perfection. She stares at herself in the mirror with a predator’s intensity, turning this way and that, eyefucking her reflection for all it can take. 

On the other side of the stage stands Nancy Ray-Ray and her manager, Red-Bo. Red is holding up pads and Nancy is going after them in a series of combinations. When Eleanor speaks in this first sequence, it is towards her reflection. She trembles with fury.

ELEANOR

I....

NANCY

          Stops punching, sniffs herself
Should have showered today!

RED

A shower? Is that what you want, a shower?

          Red pops her in the head.

NANCY

Ow!

ELEANOR

I am so...

NANCY

I thought I was fighting a chick tonight, you old cock!

ELEANOR

...incredibly....

RED

This ain’t no chick you’re fighting, babydoll.

ELEANOR

...fucking...

NANCY

I’m just saying I stink is all.

RED

Yeah you do. You stink something awful. You’re nasty. Grimy. Disgusting.

ELEANOR

...beautiful!

RED

You got something rotten deep down in your breast that ain’t no shower gonna wash off, you hear me you cheap little bottom-of-the-pecking-order piece of garbage?

NANCY

I hear you, you old capon.

RED

Been hearing that since day one, ain’t that right?

NANCY

You know it.

RED

This bird you’re battling tonight--

ELEANOR

I am....

NANCY

Goldenbelt.

ELEANOR

Eleanor Goldenbelt.

RED

The Ten Gallon Talon.

ELEANOR

Undisputed...

RED

Fryer-weight champion...

ELEANOR

...of the galaxy.

          Eleanor does some shadow boxing.

RED

...of the Intergalactic Battle Circuit.

NANCY

Formerly undisputed, Red. There now exists dispute thanks to me.

RED

That fight was a draw, hence this rematch. Don’t get cocky.

NANCY

I knocked that egg-squatting whore down once, Red. I’m going to do it again.

ELEANOR

I’m going to pick your bones clean, Nancy.

NANCY

I’m gonna shove that bitch’s tail feathers so far up her twat, her next dozen eggs are gonna feel it.

ELEANOR

You hear me, you little McNugget? I am going to roast your ass on a spit.

Attention shifts to center-stage where a little boxing ring is setup, perhaps created out of folding tables laid on their sides....you know, just a suggestion. Two birds are in their opposite corners of the ring, eagerly awaiting the bell. It’s Nancy and Eleanor, but their parts are played by birds now. Not real birds, but prop birds, the ones in that pile over there. No there. Look where I’m pointing. Red is in Nancy’s corner with her.

ANNOUNCER’S VOICE

In the western corner, weighing in at an even six pounds, the current reigning champion of the galaxy, Eleanor “The Ten Gallon Talon” Goldenbelt!

Cheers and boos from the crowd. The Eleanor bird plays to the crowd like an old pro.

ANNOUNCER’S VOICE

And in the eastern corner, weighing in at five pounds, twelve ounces, the challenger, all the way from the bottom of the pecking order, Nancy “Free Range” Ray-Ray!

More cheers and boos.

ANNOUNCER’S VOICE

Ladies, to your corners.

The birds return to their corners.

RED

Remember, she comes out hard, but don’t let that fool you! She ain’t reckless!

NANCY

I got it, Red!

RED

And keep that beak tucked!

The bell sounds and the birds go after each other at full speed. The feathers fly and the ring fills with the sound of blows landing and angry squawks. Red watches anxiously from the corner, his fists balled up, calling out the occasional encouragement or admonishment.

The fight slows down until it’s moving in slow motion. At the same time, Red’s posture relaxes until he’s standing with his hands at his side and his face relaxed. He watches the fight for a moment, but without excitement. It’s like he’s watching something from the past, something to which he knows the ending.

RED

That night, I saw the future. I knew what was coming. Oh, she won the fight. Decisively. But with that KO, she lost everything.

In the ring, Nancy delivers a knockout punch and Eleanor goes down with a pained slow-motion “Ba-goooook!” The crowd roars its approval as Nancy, the human, holds the victory belt over her head and parades around the ring.

ANNOUNCER’S VOICE

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the new intergalactic fryer-weight champion of the Battle Circuit, Nancy “Freerange” Ray-Ray!

NANCY

          Throwing her arms around Red.
I did it, Red! I beat the ever-loving snot outta that old biddy!

Eleanor limps by, very injured, very beaten, very angry.

ELEANOR

This ain’t over, little egg.

NANCY

Hey Elly, your pants are falling down. Lose your belt?

ELEANOR

Keep talking.

NANCY

And you keep walking.

ELEANOR

I’m gonna roll you in batter and fry your ass up, Ray-Ray. Just you wait.

Eleanor exits.

NANCY

You know where to find me, bitch! Up top of the pecking order!

RED

Kid, listen--

NANCY

Smile for the cameras, Red!

Nancy smiles big for the cameras. Red gives a weak grin, but then ignores it. Nancy continues posing with the belt, flexing, etc., totally playing to the camera.

RED

Yeah, yeah, kid, listen to me. We gotta get back in the gym, we gotta start training, we gotta--

NANCY

          Talking to invisible reporters
It was a tough fight, you know, she tried to overpower me with her size, but I just kept coming at her, kept wearing her down, you know? Just like pow pow pow! You know?

RED

Kid, you even listening to me?

NANCY

It’s time to celebrate! We’re partying all the way back home!

Nancy exits.

RED

And party she did, all the way back home to Earth. But there was another hen on that ship.

Eleanor appears. She’s training hard, getting ready for the inevitable rematch. Eleanor and Red give each other the stink-eye.

ELEANOR

Looking at something, old man?

RED

Just an ugly piece of poultry.

ELEANOR

Hope your little hatchling’s ready for the rematch when we get back to Earth.

RED

Looking extra meaty there, Goldy. Getting a little help on the side?

ELEANOR

Next time I meet your girl in the ring, I’m gonna rip her beak off and feed herself to...her...I mean--

RED

You’re gonna what?

ELEANOR

I’M GONNA KNOCK HER EGGS RIGHT OUT OF HER AND SWALLOW ‘EM WHOLE!

Eleanor exits. Nancy appears, still in full-on party mode.

NANCY

Red-bo! This is the guy. Taught me everything I know.

RED

Well let me teach you this, kid. We don’t start training now, and I mean right now this very instant in time, then you don’t stand an egg’s chance in an omelette of holding on to that belt.

NANCY

Were you not watching that fight, Red? I destroyed that old feather factory and barely broke a sweat.

RED

You think she’s not getting ready right now, as we speak? The bird you meet in that ring is gonna be bigger, stronger, angrier--

NANCY

Oh Red, shut your fucking beak.

Smacks her.

RED

Don’t you ever--!

She punches him, taking him completely by surprise. It takes him a second to recover.

RED

Okay kid, if that’s how you wanna play it.

Attention directs back to the ring at center.

ANNOUNCER’S VOICE

In this corner, weighing in at nine pounds, three and one-half ounces, the former-champion of the galaxy, Eleanor “The Angry Egg” Goldenbelt.

The Eleanor bird appears, but it’s bigger this time. Roar from the crowd.

ANNOUNCER’S VOICE

And in this corner, weighing in at six pounds, two ounces, Nancy “The Deadly Drumstick” Ray-Ray!

RED

The Deadly Drumstick?

NANCY

I liked the sound of it.

The bell dings. The hens go after each other, the crowd roars, we hear the sounds of the fight.

RED

Eleanor had nearly doubled in size since that last fight. Nancy had put on some weight too, all of it fat. It was a slaughter.

Nancy goes down. The bell dings. Eleanor the human appears holding the belt high over her head for all to see. She walks as if her legs are having a hard time supporting her weight. Nancy the human stumbles towards Red, severely beaten. She falls into his arms and he catches her.

RED (cont’d)

Come on kid.

NANCY

Red.

RED

Let’s go home.

NANCY

          She grabs his face to make him pay attention and struggles to get the words out.
Red. Must. Beat. Her.

RED

You did beat her, sweetie. And then she beat you. It’s over.

NANCY

Rematch. Must. Kill. Must.

ELEANOR

          Posing for cameras and talking to invisible reporters.
Who I really feel for are the fans who wanted to see a good fight. I do this for them, you know. My opponent just wasn’t able to hold up her end.

NANCY

Must! Destroy! Belt!

ELEANOR

It’s obvious I must have been under the weather during our last match. There’s no way that little pheasant could beat me in a fair fight.

RED

That should have been it. Nancy should have gone back to Texas and bid her boxing career adieu. But there was just too much money at stake.

Nancy and Eleanor start training on their own sides of the stage. Pushups, running in place, jump-roping, shadow-boxing, whatever. In all their motions, it is clear that their legs are struggling to hold up their weight. Could we get some good workout music going here? That’d be awesome.

RED

The next match was scheduled for three months out, and the venue of choice was Patton Station, a civilian space terminal situated just outside the jurisdiction of any of the Earth system’s gaming regulatory bodies. Nancy trained like a chicken with her head cut off. She grew strong, freakishly, impossibly strong.

Red holds up pads for Nancy to punch. She punches them in a series of combinations until she finally hits one so hard that it knocks Red to the ground.

NANCY

BA-GOK! I’m gonna eat her eyes right out of her head! You hear me, Red?

RED

What are you up to now, Nance? Fifteen? Twenty pounds?

NANCY

Twenty-one pounds, two-and-three-quarter ounces.

RED

So what is it? Corn supplements? Liquid soy? Straight up ‘roids?

NANCY

What do you care, as long as I’m bringing home the belt?

RED

What happened to free-range, Nancy? Grass-fed? All-natural? Look at you. You’re industrialized.

NANCY

Industrialized to win.

RED

You can barely stand.

NANCY

I stand just fine, cockface!

RED

Have a good fight, kid.

Attention back to the ring. The birds are ridiculously-huge now. The crowd roars. The bell dings, but the birds are so big, they can barely move to fight. They peck at each other weakly. The crowd jeers and boos, egging them on to fight. The birds try to fight, but then just fall over. The human actors appear and fall to the floor. They lay next to each other, still trying desperately to stand and fight, to get at each other somehow, but it’s futile. Red watches for a bit, but then turns and exits.

NANCY

As soon as I--ba-gok!--get my feet under me, I’m going to--

Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding! This fight is over and the crowd is pissed! Lots of booing, lots of hissing.

NANCY

Bok?!

ELEANOR

Oh god. Oh god!

She clucks madly.

NANCY

What’s the matter with you?

ELEANOR

You and me just fought our last fight.

NANCY

What are you talking about?

Red reappears with various chicken processing implements.

NANCY (cont’d)

Red, you gotta help me!

He hefts Nancy and Eleanor into position to be processed and begins plucking their feathers.

NANCY (cont’d)

Red, what are you doing?

RED

I’m sorry sweetheart, but it’s my duty as your trainer.

NANCY

But I’m a fighting hen!

RED

You done got yourself too big to brawl.

Red places her head on a chopping block and holds a large blade over her head.

NANCY

What are you doing?!

RED

I’m real sorry about this Nancy. Now down you go my little hen, down, down, down into the abyss with the rest of us sinners.

Red brings down the blade. Blackout.

How To Ruin A Perfectly Good Blog Post Before Typing A Single Word

My wife has been talking about chickens for I don’t even remember how long. And I don’t mean “Damn, I could sure go for some of that Top Notch fried chicken action about now.” No, I’m talking more like “Oh dear sweet husband, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have our very own chickens bok-bok-bokking about our back yard? Don’t you want to build me a chicken coop in which our chickens may live? What should our chicken coop look like? What kind of chickens should we get? Don’t you love the idea of a fridge full of freshly laid eggs? Aren’t chickens the best? Can we get them this weekend? Do you like this chicken coop design? What about this one? Yes, I’ll have the chicken enchiladas with verde sauce, please.”

Actually, that last one was just her order at Chuy’s a while back.

I don’t mean to make my wife sound like she was nagging me about it, except, reading that first paragraph up there, it seems like I sorta did. Sorry babe. I mean yeah, there was a lot of chicken chatter going on around our place (oooo baby, speak hen to me), but that was just a result of her excitement. I did offer up one design for a chicken coop, but in my zeal to provide privacy for up to four hens, it kind of ended up looking like a swastika. Ultimately, I left all the research and design up to her, as I simply was not as into it as she was. This was her project, but I would be available for any grunt work that needed doing.

Nice typo, loser

Finally this past weekend, we commenced with coop construction. I had not exactly been looking forward to it, but there really was no reason to put it off any longer. Things got off to a fantastic start. The day brought us gorgeous working weather, and before too long, we had the walls of the henhouse constructed. Now chickens are not what you would call high-needs creatures when it comes to their habitat. They need an outdoor area, an indoor area, a roost, a place to lay eggs, and protection from predators. They don’t necessarily need every corner to fit together perfectly or for every angle to be a perfect 90.0 degrees. And it’s a good thing too since most of my education in the art of construction occurred in a theatrical scene shop where it’s common to hear exchanges such as:

“These ends aren’t square at all.”
“That’s cool, that part doesn’t face the audience.”

Or

“This board’s a little weak, should we reenforce it?”
“Nah, the only person that stands on it is that anorexic chick in the first act.”

So while my work wasn’t 100% perfect, I still strove to do a halfway decent job. I was enjoying the work of bringing wood and hardware together to create a recognizable and functional form. Plus, you know, power tools. Fuckin’ A. 
 
I’m going to write about this, I thought. How I wasn’t all that excited to build this damn coop, but then I got started and I began enjoying myself and getting into the satisfaction of a job done well or at least mostly pretty much okay and what a great day it was and how nice the boys played together while I worked and look how badass I am and here’s a picture of me with a circular saw. It’s gonna be positive and wonderful and I bet five whole people will read it.

All this wonderfulness? It did not last. 

This is where we get to the part about blog post ruination, because you see, the key to ruining a post like this lies in your ability to ruin your day. Somewhere in the afternoon, stuff started going wrong. We figured out that, surprise surprise, we didn’t have everything we needed and that a trip to Home Depot was inevitable. The boys stopped playing so nicely. Frustrations mounted. Alone, these things are not enough to ruin your day. In order to do that, you have to respond to them by losing your patience in the grass. You have to toss your sense of humor over the fence into the neighbor's yard like a toy dumptruck. You have to take every little setback far too seriously so you can get yourself good and pissed off. You have to yell at your kids. You have to let your entire mood go sour, and then you have to carry that shit with you on into the evening. That’s how you do it.

Guess I won’t be writing that happy chicken coop post after all, I thought.

All is not lost, however. The coop stands in the yard unfinished, not due to abandonment but simply because we ran out of weekend. We got as far as painting it with a color that I like to call taco stand yellow. We’ll finish the coop soon and we’ll name it something clever like the Henhouse de la Holmes or the Coop de Ville or Jurassic BOK! We’ll stand back and admire our work and hope that it’s up to the task. We will acquire our hens and bring them home to live in the lovely new home that we’ve built for them, and they will show us their gratitude by bokking out fresh eggs for us.

And it will all be okay.