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Posts Tagged ‘Evil Chickens’

HOORAH! Woot-Woot-Woot!  Yesterday I happily boxed up Satan’s Minions our chickens for transport to their new home! (Oh allllll riiiiight. So I didn’t really help. I supervised, didn’t I?)

dance-cowBegone, winged beasts! Oh pestilent poultry! Fowl land mine leavers most foul!  I command you to LEAVE THIS PLACE!  *Walks the yard holding a cross at arms length, swinging an incense orb in her other hand.

I. am. so. HAPPY!

For those just tuning in, I have a real thing about chickens. Their beady eyes, flappy wings and terrifyingly bold nature freak me OUT. Me noooo likey. I’ll spare the regular readers, but do a search for “evil chickens” in here and you’ll have reading material up the yazoo.

I was especially happy to see them leave after I spooked them by accident –with a plastic bag of all things– and one of them flew up in my face and hit me hard enough to bend my glasses. In. My. Face. In-my-FACE.

IN MY FACE!!!

*Waves goodbye while giddily breathing into a paper bag.

The absolute last, final word: Alektorophobics, you are NOT Alone!

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evil-chicken1(Not really, I just made that up.)

The evil peepers have infiltrated our routine as faux family members. Daily they’re brought food, water, hay and fresh straw. I see them out there, clucking around the yard in what appears to be normal barnyard behavior.

They think they have me fooled.

I know that a chicken’s brain is the size of a pea. This brings me no comfort as that’s one honker of a microchip. Have no idea what their armament capabilities might be. Hidden arsenal of WMD’s suspected.

Military training exercises apparent. Yesterday I watched them ice skate down their ramp from a strategic position. One after another. They did not fly, slip or falter down the icy slope into a confused heap. Oh no, one by one they struck a pose and SKATED. Once they reached the bottom, they laughed (laughed, I say!), fluttered back up into Hell’s Henhouse and repeated the exercise.

Deployment may be imminent.

Using a high-end Codex, I deciphered some of the encrypted cackling in their native tongue:

“Dude! Watch this gnarly tube..” 

“Pffft! That ain’t nothin’. Lookit, I can bunny hop the rail!”

“RADICAL! Seriously sick!”

Intentions unknown at this time. Will continue covert op to stockpile weapons and observe enemy movements.

End transmission.

Chapter IX: The Evil Chickens have LEFT the Building!

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It is a proven scientific fact that some animals eat their young when they turn into mouthy adolescents. In the wild kingdom, formerly cute and cuddly baby critters turn into gollum-like creatures once the horror-mones kick in.

Not that my children are like that.

Take evil chickens for example. Yes, I know you’re probably sick of hearing about them, but with Hell’s Henhouse in my backyard it’s REALLY hard to get them off my mind. So bear with me, ok?

Deceptively innocent, isn't it.

Do not be fooled by the fluffy exterior. Inside lurks the mind of an evil dictator.

Evil chickens begin their days as adorable peeping fluff balls suitable for any Easter basket.  (That is, if you don’t mind salmonella-bearing feces mixed among the Cadbury eggs.) But they don’t stay little and cute, oh no. They grow. They lose their cuddly appearance and turn into gangly, bad tempered, moody beasts.

Again, not referring to my children, you understand.

Worried chicken Moms try and try. They make them say “Please” and “Thank you” at the water dish. They show them how to earn a respectable living scratching for earthworms in the dirt. They teach them not to fear the inferior beings that present them with daily fresh food and water, and to assert themselves by scaring the bejeezus out of the the big one at every opportunity.

And still they rebel.

Chicken-Moms worry. Oh yes they do! They worry their lessons will go unheeded and their baby peepers might become chicken gangstas. What if they get a little older and stay out all night or grow weed(s) out back of the garage? In every neighborhood, there’s always a few bad eggs–please don’t let them be mine! And that’s why we……er……they fret so much. 

This could be the outcome.

This is all YOUR fault, Mom!

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She cut me. She cut me good.

<fade to black>

It’s day 56 of the Chicken Apocalypse, and I’ve formed an uneasy alliance with the Hens from Hades. Namely, I feed them treats and they don’t try to suck out my soul when I approach their pen. So far it seems to be working, as they’ve gotten much fatter and my soul is still intact.

Or so it seems.

Today I walked past their pen to get to the shed. As usual, they followed me the full length of their prison yard, eyeballing me the whole way. To ease their suspicions and diffuse a potentially dangerous situation, I took a leap of faith and put down the baseball bat.

They clucked their approval, and the two fat ones by the door put their lead pipes on the ground–but still close at wing.

Slowly, I reached for one of the ferns growing on the edge of our yard.

The chickens began to cackle with excitement and flutter about in their pen. After eating high dollar, perfectly balanced mash, oyster shell and hay all day, free and plentiful fern fronds are their favorite treat. Grabbing a handful, I yanked hard to break the thick stalks.

AYIII CARUMBA!!!! (and a few other Spanish words I can’t spell.)

One of the fern stalks sliced my hand wide open. Would never have believed it if I hadn’t done it m’self. It’s a PLANT, for pete’s sake!

I could see I was gonna live without stitches, but wanted to clean and bandage my hand. I dropped the ferns and walked to the house with the evil peepers trailing behind. They followed along the edge of their fence, clucking in disgust that I’d teased them with treats but didn’t deliver.

I think our fragile alliance is broken. 

I left the bat outside too, dammit, and the smell of blood in the air. I’m not going out there without backup, I can tell you that. Maybe I’ll make my daughter walk out in front of me like a shield. With any luck, they’ll eat the little one and leave me the hell alone. 

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                 Wasn’t a Dingo that ate that baby!

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We lock the evil chickens in Hell’s Henhouse at night to keep predators from finding them finger lickin’ good. Every morning, the girls let them out so they have the run of a large pen all day. It’s like a dog run but for chickens. A chicken run. (BAhahahaha! I kill me!)

We’ve had 9 chickens for about 2 months now, and I can finally enter their pen without hyperventilating.  So this morning, when our children slept in, silly me thought Hey…I’ll let the chickens out so the kids can relax this morning.

I thought I could do it. Really, I did. 

Half asleep, coffee cup in hand, I traipsed outside in my jammies to the chicken pen. All I had to do was open their door, secure the run gate and go back into the house. Easy peasy nice-n-squeezie. Or not.

The evil little bastards knew I was coming.

I know they did, because they did not saunter out at a leisurely pace like they do every morning for the kids. Oh no, I opened up that door and those beasts all flew at me at once–squawking and flapping and gnashing their teeth! (Do chickens have teeth? They must…I swear these things had fangs.) I had a flashback to childhood, where a rat in the henhouse + a screaming Kelly led to the same performance–except this time I was trapped inside the pen.

As they flew at me I shrieked and backed up to the fence, my favorite coffee cup sailing through the air. Flying at me like feathered vampires apparently wasn’t enough, because then they surrounded me! Pinned up against the fence, trapped by Satan’s evil horde all hopping up and down and ferociously flapping their wings, I detected an odd sound. At first I thought it was chickens chanting, “Kill the old bat! Kill the old bat!”  but then I realized the guttural sound gaining momentum was coming from me. Without even realizing it, I was pleading, “Don’t do that! Don’t do that! Oh please don’t do that!”  

Loudly.

–And then just like that, they lost interest and wandered away.

I stood there almost in tears over my own stupidity. Picked up my coffee cup and bruised ego and hightailed it out of the pen wondering if the neighbors were laughing hysterically behind their blinds, of if the kids were watching through the window. I know I was a ridiculous sight.

Funny yes, and Funny no.

I know it’s stupid.  I see the humor now, but early this morning I felt like I was going to have a heart attack. No, really–take whatever irrational fear you might possess and multiply it by 9.

See what I mean?

(sigh) The human psyche is a weird, weird thing.

Chapter VII: Day 146 of Chicken Hell

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The evil chickens are still residing in our backyard. They’ve shed their fluffball disguises and grown into half feathered, half alligator skin Gollum-like creatures with beaks. They killed off 3 of their own before we put marbles in their pen. It seems they like shiny things, and are willing to commit poultrycide to get them.

My Precioussss…

We haven’t found a horribly mangled body in weeks, so I think we’re in the clear. It seems the Evil Menace get bored and require entertainment. Straw piles to dismantle, feed strewn about, and a mean game of marbles every once in awhile. They want you to think it’s a harmless child’s game, but they’re more like thugs on the corner strong-arming tourists into 3-card Monte. Plotting bastards.

Yesterday, I found a soft pear in the refrigerator. Thinking it might entertain them a short while, I tossed it into their pen. They like a variety of fruit, but turned up their beaks at the pear. Perhaps it was too ripe for their delicate little palettes, which are accustomed to things like perfectly balanced feed, hay, fresh grass and–oh, I don’t know–the still-warm flesh of fellow poultry dumb enough not to sleep with one eye open. Then again, they may have already begun constructing a diabolical plan yet to come.

At dusk, our girls went outside to put Satan’s Minions in for the night. While trying to shoo a wayward beast toward Hell’s Henhouse, Pup stepped backward onto the pear. Horrified, she immediately closed her eyes, lifted her foot and asked Ems, “Did I kill it? Is it dead?” 

Recognizing a prime opportunity to mess with her sister’s head, our youngest took on a tone of mourning. “Oh no. I think you killed it. It’s not moving.” Pup was devastated  until she opened her eyes to a gooey pear. –Then she was so relieved she forgot to be mad at her little sister.

Creamed chicken, anyone?

Chapter VII (The Saga CONTINUES!):  So There I Was

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