Back when I was 15, like all hot blooded teenagers (this has nothing sadly to do with being hot blooded) I was learning how to drive. Between my father’s obvious terror at being in the front seat of a car driven by his daughter and my mother’s out and out refusal to drive with me, I was stuck researching other options so that I may actually get approved for a driver’s license sometime in the next 14 years.
The other options came in the form of my over 18 years old friends, whom I was allowed to drive with (they’ve since changed this law in Illinois, I believe). By nature of being invincibly 18 AND having oodles of marijuana on board (them, not me. I was too much a Nervous Nelly for that. Well. Sort of. But that’s another story), they didn’t mind driving with me.
So one day, I was out and about with my friend Audrey and she was patiently sitting shotgun as we drove out in the more rural areas surrounding my town. I figured that this was probably safest alternative, considering that there was little to no traffic for me to hit with my car.
Always known for my wanderlust, we drove aimlessly around for ages (or perhaps 15 minutes). On one of the winding roads, just as you came over a hill was a farm. And on that farm they had some chickens. And those chickens saw fit to cross this road at THE EXACT MOMENT I DROVE UP THE HILL. It was a blind hill, so I couldn’t see anything on the other side of it.
The next thing I knew, I ran over not one, not two, but an entire flock of chickens. My car was awash in chicken feathers and poo. And I began screaming along with the poor chickens.
I slammed on the brakes and turned to Audrey, tears pouring out of my eyes and she grimly informed me that I needed to go back and put any of the chickens that weren’t dead out of their misery. This was an even more horrifying prospect to me, who now just wanted to climb back in bed and wrap myself in the comfort of a large doobie.
I liked chickens, I did! I thought they were cute and sweet (I obviously didn’t KNOW any chickens) and I was happy to have them around. Opossums, however, I would have happily run down with my car, bike or even my boot clad feet. They were mean, they were nasty, and I hated them. But chickens! My heart shattered loudly.
But no. I couldn’t sit their daydreaming while there were more chickens to maim! I executed a 14 point turn and went back in my Car of Doom, crying and blubbering on and found the chickens. Well, some of them. Thankfully (I suppose) for my guilt-ridden conscience the ones that were dead were, in fact, dead, and the ones that weren’t had moved on to less dangerous car infested pastures.
As we drove away, still crying like a baby, Audrey looked at me and said, “Why did the chickens cross the road? TO GET RUN OVER BY BECKY.”
I was highly unamused.