So I’ve got another bug up my ass, Queefies. It was the car, and then the puppy, and before all that it was the windows, and now it’s chickens.
That’s right, she said chickens.
Back around Easter time I saw a thing on Martha Stewart all about chickens and raising chickens and she does it so it must mean it’s classy, right?
But she had all these really fancy looking ones and Girlfriend and I were riveted and now WE WANT CHICKENS! We’re mostly vegetarians around here, and we get a lot of our protein from eggs, and I’m not terribly happy to learn how chickens are treated, even under the best of circumstances, so I’d rather know my eggs came from happy chickens who go for regular manis and pedis and feather fluffings and whatnot. I’m not ever going to eat the chickens, but I will share the eggs with family and friends and feel superior and smug every time I pass the egg section at the Super Stop & Shop’s.
And the beautiful part of this is that we have the perfect spot. You see Queefies, our garage has two levels because it used to be a carriage house. The upper level is where the carriage would go, and the lower level is where the horsies lived. And there’s a small yard down there that looks very much like it belongs to Earl and Maudette.
We could keep the chickens down there, and people will think they belong to them and the Crissys will avoid the stigma of being the assholes with the fucking rooster, while at the same time, having a rooster to piss off Maudette’s hangovers!
The rooster wouldn’t bother me any. Our neighbors growing up had one. It just appeared in their yard one day and wouldn’t leave, so they took care of it. It followed their dog around wherever it went. It was hysterical.
So yes. I want to get chickens. Not right now, I’ve got my hands full right now, but soon.