Apparently my shenanigans with chickens have reached someone’s heart. Here’s a Cliff Notes summary of my story:
Chickens are like people in that some are brighter than others. Mine are free range chickens which puts them in the Mensa/Survivalist chicken league…
The fattest laziest birds, the ones that rarely leave the pen, are the first to go. Unemployed yahoos who sit in the basement playing Nintendo should mark these words; you’re first on the list. I call those early losers the “welfare birds”. Good riddance to them.
The last one could bob and weave like a prizefighter.
This was the ninja, killer, assassin, jungle warfare, wilderness survival, Navy SEAL, “don’t turn your back on it for one second”, greatest chicken of all time! I could only admire it’s moxie.
This spurred a fond memory at Excels At Nothing. Sounds like Grandpa was working on creating warrior chickens too. (Not that I endorse his methods!)
“You see, my Grandpa figured each hen should lay one egg each day. He would count the eggs, and if he came up short, he would decide which hens weren’t laying. He’d then put the underperformer(s) in a crate, tie a rope to it, throw the end of the rope over a tree branch, pull the rope to run the crate up the tree, and squirt the chicken(s) with a hose.
I have no idea if this ever produced more eggs, but it probably does explain why Grandpa was an architect (and a cartographer during WWI) instead of a farmer.”
Click to read the rest. It’s hilarious!