What does a chicken without a chick do on the weekend? I'm sort of at a loss here. Been staring at the ceiling some. That's pretty cool, 'cause I can reach beyond it in my mind to the glorious heights of self-pity. I wonder why people don't spend more time doing this, because it's actually very rewarding in some strange way. I feel like a gen-u-wine victim of circumstance here, and it's all very dramatic. The part that's not so good is when I look around the apartment. The dishes are piled up and the laundry is overflowing the basket. Frankly, I'm tired of looking at the stuff, so I'd like to get out of here for a little while. Maybe skate around the block or something. Anything to take my mind off of that stupid kookaburra bird. I mean, she washed my dishes for me. How do you ever replace that?
I can't believe she broke up with me after one week. I mean, a relationship that long - I really thought we were gonna make it. I THOUGHT WE HAD SOMETHING, KOOKABURRA BIRD! I have never devoted so much time and effort to any one chick before.
Well, time, anyway. To her. I guess the effort part would have been more applicable to her friends. But still, I was there. I was there for her when no one else was. Not her friends who were always calling her to see how she was, or her parents who helped her pick up her things from my place yesterday after I threatened to burn the stuff, or her business associates who put in a good word for her whenever I tried to smear her name with everyone I know all over town. Seriously, what did any of them ever do for her? Nothing. That's what.
I thought we had something. But now, I guess not. C'est la vie, huh?
Anyone see the game last night? It was going pretty well until that one ref called a fowl ball.*
Your "I'll Get Over This Quickly," no, wait, make that "Your Embittered,"
Chicken
*Thanks to the reader in Alexandria for this one.
zbigchicken at gmail dot com
Dear Mr. Big Chicken
ReplyDeleteI am writing this letter on behalf of my client, Little Kookaburra, hereafter to be referred to as "the victim."
My client, the victim, has requested a cease and desist order against the numerous e-mails, letters, and skywriting you have been sending her way since the dissolution of your "relationship." She requests that you stop embarrassing yourself with phrases such as "I'm not a man anymore without you" and "Please, please, please come back to me. I'll change! I'll do anything! I won't make you do that thing with mayonnaise anymore." We also request that you stop sending tear-soaked napkins with break-up poetry. It's really just sad.
In addition to the aforementioned, we request that you do not come within a radius of 3000 miles of the victim (or 4800 kilometres if you are a Canadian chicken.) As you are currently violating that restriction right now by about 2,997 miles, you are required to move. Oh, and "the victim" is not required to tell you where she is. You only need know that you need to move.
Sincerely,
A Very Expensive Lawyer
It's Mr. The Big Chicken to you, bub. And, hey, who is this chick you're referring to? I don't know anyone I've dated named "my client," so you'd better go re-read your files. Or have your assistant do that, because somebody somewhere screwed up on this one.
ReplyDeleteBesides, in case you didn't notice, Mr. Lawyer person, she broke up with me, so technically, I'm the victim here. So get that straight.
Anyhow, like I was saying, you need to call off your dogs because I never even met this girl. Or her friends (who were looking pretty good at that one party, in case you're looking).
Sincerely,
zbc
oh, and btw:
Please do not ever refer to the metric system in any future correspondences with me, the big hunky, funky, conversion-challenged chicken. Also, FYI, I saw a cute Canadian goose during my travels. If you ever mention the metric system again, I will sketch that goose up on a tear-soaked paper napkin and send an image to you via my highly personal blogspot. So, who's threatening who now, punk?