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Our stupid, worthless chickens have currently taken a hiatus from laying eggs. For whatever reason, the colder climate has them convinced they're entitled to some sort of sabbatical one gets after earning tenure. Time outs aren't working, nor are my stern looks. However, they have been molting for the past few weeks and have generously left their feathers strewn about the pen. Rather than being mortified by their appearance and hanging their beaks in shame, they prance around and mockingly suggest that I use their feathers to stuff a pillow for my sissy head. I guess laying eggs while exposed to the harsh Arizona climate somehow makes them hard-core and I'm some sort of house-dwelling mamby pants. I've decided to put the food dish on top of their coop. I will very much enjoy watching them flap their useless wings in an attempt to reach their daily rations - a perfect reminder that poultry = pathetic.
As I was driving down Mill Avenue yesterday morning, I came upon a sea of pink-shirted individuals with catchy phrases written across their chestical area:
SAVE THE TATAS!
I KNEAD MY KNOCKERS!
When did this happen? When did it become socially acceptable to refer to your cantaloupes as anything other than breasts? I'm at odds as to whether I think it's a very creative way to peak interest in the safety of my num nums, or a dumbed down solution to raise money in the name of milk jug research. All I know is that badoinkie cancer is serious business.
