I had a most excellent thought last night while trying to go to sleep.
I figured out why I wasn't sleeping ... I was counting ferrets rather
than sheep. Oh well. Anyway, my brainstorm consisted of the idea of why
not make a "classic" FML?! You know, a gathering of all of the classic,
most memorable posts on the FML. I thought I could kick it off today
with the mother of all classics ... Limejello's "Brazillian Exploding
Chickens". I hope to add, or that others add:

Lissettes post about Minime swinging from the curtains with a bone
through her nose ... or something to that extent.

Kouri Wood getting a phone call from a sales rep.

They don't have to be funny. They can be impactful in other ways. Such
as Jean Caputo Lee's "You Said That You Loved Me". When my family read
that so many years ago one Christmas, we "got it". I literally felt
myself leave my body and put myself in the place of a rescue. And it
hurt. So I'll always remember that.

So without further ado, my friend ... LimeJello:

It all started when I decided to try my hand at a batch of the now
famous Chicken Gravy provided to us by the illustrious Bob Church.
After reading the numerous accolades posted on the FML by seemingly
competent FML'rs and possessing a strong desire to do what's best for
those spoiled-rotten, manipulative, mind-controlling little furrbrats I
call my ferrets, I had a high confidence level that I could accomplish
this task. The fact that I can't come within 50 feet of a kitchen
without starting at least a small grease fire did not dissuade me in
the least. So I set about this little project with an optimism not
usually found in an owner of these little poop factories. Little did I
know this undertaking would result in a disaster rivalled only by the
sinking of the Titanic, only without the iceberg...or the ocean...or
the ship...or Leonardo...okay, so maybe it wasn't that bad. But it was
at least as bad as the events precipitating and immediately following
the situation that occurs when you get up in the middle of the night
to go to the bathroom and stub your pinky toe on the coffee table,
especially when the coffee table is not on your way to the bathroom.

I think the whole think went wrong right at the beginning, somewhere
right around the time I decided to take a few shortcuts. Since this
seems to be the case with so many other of my little projects, I've
decided I need to review the timing of my shortcuts. I figure I need
to start taking my shortcuts either sooner or later in the process,
so as not to coincide with the time that things begin to go wrong.
Anyway, I digress. This particular shortcut began as I was reading the
ingredients of this concoction. Right away I noticed that two of the
ingredients came directly from chickens: obviously the chicken, and
just as obviously the eggshells. Whereupon I came up with the brilliant
idea, for the sake saving a wee bit of effort, to take a jaunt down to
the nearest chicken ranch (get your minds out of the gutter, I live in
Washington, not Nevada) and pick up a chicken that was about to lay
eggs, thereby killing two birds with one stone, no pun intended. I
would then have two of the ingredients conveniently contained in the
same feathery bag of skin. I even toyed with the idea of first
force-feeding the chicken the other ingredients in the formula, but
since my goal was to save time and effort, I decided not to go for
the advanced degree in chicken wrestling.

Perhaps one of the biggest mistakes I made during this little adventure
was deciding to do some midnight shopping with a five-finger discount
for this chicken. It wasn't because I have a predisposition towards
larceny nor was it a desire to save money. I merely figured that my
thieving ferrets would prefer the taste of a purloined chicken over
that of a legitimately purchased one. Let me tell you, I highly
recommend against this course of action. I found that chicken farmers
become quite testy when they discover a figure in black exiting the
coop at a high rate of speed, with squawking chicken in hand. I also
found that rock salt stings like you wouldn't believe and is very
detrimental the health of one's backside. It was quite a feat driving
home with my ill-gotten gain in the trunk while driving in a standing
position. I'm glad my Bug has a sunroof.

Upon returning home, and after applying a liberal dose of ice to my
distressed derriere, I set about the dirty deed of butchering the dread
beast. I didn't think it would be a big deal. As a youth, I used to
hunt prairie chickens on the plains of Eastern Montana and I figured
a chicken was a chicken. However, there was one fact that I had not
anticipated. Domesticated chickens, due to their close proximity to
man, have learned to understand Human language. You see, up to this
point, the chicken had been relatively calm, although it was
understandably perturbed at first, being brought out of deep sleep
and shoved into the trunk of a Bug. But once I got the fowl home, it
settled down and seemed quite at home on my kitchen counter. It even
tried to make friends with an oven mitt which was ingeniously designed
to look like a chicken.

But when I pulled out the butcher knife and said, "Now it's time to
make you into ferret food", I caught the flicker of understanding in
the bird's eyes a split second before it took off in a flurry of
feathers and chicken poop. I never thought a chicken could move that
fast. That chicken was flapping all around the apartment, pumping his
wings for all it was worth I immediately gave chase, not wanting the
hard work and pain I went through to get the foul fowl to go to waste.
Through the living room, into the bedroom, across the bed, into the
bathroom and through the kitchen I chased the panicked bird. In his
haste to escape the butcher block, this chicken was performing aviation
maneuvers that would have made the most daring stunt pilot jealous.
Finally, I thought I had it. But at the last minute it dashed out the
living room window, leaving me with nothing but a handful of feathers.

As I looked out the window after the hastilly retreating chicken, I
heard a voice, "You can't keep chickens in your apartment!" I looked
down, there was my landlord. She had seen the chicken fly out of my
window. Uh-oh! Through some quick thinking and fast talking, I managed
to convince her that I wasn't keeping a chicken in my apartment, it
was an infestation of chickens. (Fortunately, my landlord is not too
bright) This was something I would later come to regret when the Orkin
man showed up at my apartment to spray for chickens.

I turned back into my apartment and surveyed the damage. It was just
like my mom used to say about my room when I was a kid, it looked like
a tornado had hit the place. Lamps knocked over, chairs overturned,
pictures knocked off the walls and worst of all, feathers and chicken
poop all over. So I set about cleaning the place. After that arduous
task was complete I sat down to regroup. I wasn't about to give up yet.
I figured since the live chicken thing didn't work, I would break down
and just go the store and buy an already dead chicken from the meat
section and some eggs. I picked out a pleasantly plump fryer and a
half dozen eggs and headed home.

When I returned home, I was faced with another dilemma. Not having a
meat grinder like so many have recommended, I had no way of processing
the bones. But, being the ingenious person I am, I quickly came up with
a solution. I would just use the meat tenderizing mallet to pound the
bones flat. And I figured I could do it while they were still inside
the chicken. But as I held the puny mallet in my hand, it seemed
woefully inadequate for the job. So I went to my trusty toolbox and
pulled out a hammer. This too did not seem adequate for the job. So I
pulled out the big guns, the 10 pound sledge hammer. Yes, this seemed
like it would do the job nicely.

Before I started in on the chicken, though, I had to don some
protective gear. You see, I have a fear of germs, and salmonellas, and
other nastinesses that can reside on chickens (did you ever see that
episode of the X-Files, eeeeeeeeeeewwwww!). But not possessing an apron
or anything of that nature, I instead wrapped my entire body with Saran
wrap. Not a inch was left exposed to the threat of chicken nastinesses.
Then I donned my safety goggles and prepared to pound away. But then it
occurred to me, bashing and mutilating the carcass of a chicken can't
be a pretty sight. I decided that closing my eyes would be the best
way to avoid such a gruesome sight. So eyes closed, I proceeded to
pound away. And pound I did. I beat that chicken like the proverbial
red-headed stepchild. I pounded and pounded and pounded with the sledge
hammer until I was breathing heavy from the exertion. I pounded until I
was sure the bones were finely powdered, then I pounded some more.

When I finally ceased pounding, I opened my eyes and was flabbergasted
at the sight I beheld. This dead chicken had made more of a mess then
the live chicken had! There was chicken everywhere. Chicken guts on
the walls, pieces parts on the ceiling, bits of skin on the kitchen
cabinets, blood on the floor. I realized maybe I had pounded a little
too vehemently. It was at about this time the realization came to me
that when the temperature outside is 85 degrees and one lives in an
apartment without air conditioning, one should not wrap one's body
entirely in Saran wrap and then exert oneself. Then came the
realization that the previous realization came too late because I
passed out from the heat.

When I came to, I was facing an intricate pattern of blood and chicken
parts on the wall. In my dazed condition, I could only think of two
things to do: either get high and marvel at the psychedelic patterns or
be a soothsayer and divine the future from the chicken guts. But since
I don't do drugs and I have never said any sooths, I waited until I
came to my senses and decided to just clean the mess up. But before I
could start, someone started banging on my door. "What's all that
pounding going on in there!" It was the landlord again. Being somewhat
still weak and dazed I answered the door. The landlord was aghast when
she saw me, wrapped in Saran wrap, plastered with chicken parts. She
demanded to know what was going on. I convinced her that the chickens
infesting my apartment were the rare Brazilian Exploding chickens and
one just exploded in my kitchen. That seemed to satisfy her. As I said
before, she's not too bright. She didn't even question what chickens
from Brazil were doing in the Pacific Northwest. I went back in to
clean the apartment again.

And thus ended my career as a chicken gravy maker. I had been shot at.
I had a close encounter of the feathered kind. And I had to completely
clean my apartment twice, which was twice more than it usually gets
cleaned. I realized that this recipe was designed to cause you no end
of trouble not matter how you went about it. I just scrambled the eggs
I had bought and sat in front of the TV to forget my woes. I figure I
if my ferrets want some chicken gravy, they can bloody well make it
themselves.

Of course, I blame Bob Church entirely for this episode. Obviously
if it wasn't for him posting this diabolical recipe, I would not
have gotten myself into this predicament. I can just see him sitting
in front of his Mac, the moniter lighting his face with a demonic
glow, offsetting the evil glint in his eyes, typing madly, cackling
hysterically, thinking, "I'm gonna mess up someone real good with this
post." Then, with much glee, he presses the "send" button, sits back,
and anxiously awaits the chaos he knows it will cause. I can only
imagine how many other people were caught in this devious trap, but
were too embarassed to say anything. I decided to go public to expose
Mr. Church for what he really is and to prevent other people from being
taken in by his seemingly innocent posts. Next time, maybe I'll try
Edward's LUMPS. That seems a much more benign recipe.

Now all of this is behind me and I'm not one to hold a grudge. However,
I anxiously await Bob Church's next visit to the Seattle area.

Wolfy

[Posted in FML 5771]