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]