No, this picture has nothing to do with anything. But it cheered me up a bit, so, you know.
Back when I was 15, like all hot blooded teenagers I was learning how to drive.
Between my father’s obvious terror at the idea of 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 option came in the form of my over-18 years old friends, whom I was allowed by the state to drive with.
So one day, I was tooling around with my friend Audrey as we drove out in the more rural areas outside 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.
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.
I screamed 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 vodka.
I liked chickens, I did! I thought they were cute and sweet 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 at the prospect. Becky, MURDER OF CHICKENS, I could see the headlines now.
But no. I couldn’t sit their daydreaming while there were more chickens to maim! I executed a 14 or 47 point turn and drove my Car of Doom back, 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, me still weeping over the dead chickens, my car covered with carnage and feathers, Audrey looked at me and said,
“Why did the chickens cross the road?”
She waited a couple of beats as I grimly held onto the steering wheel at a perfect 10 and 2 position.
“TO GET RUN OVER BY BECKY.”
I was highly unamused.