Chicken Joke

A New York City yuppie moved to the country and bought a piece of land. He went to the local feed and livestock store and talked to the proprietor and asked to buy one hundred chicks.

“That’s a lot of chicks,” commented the proprietor. “I mean business,” the city slicker replied.

A week later the yuppie was back again. “I need another hundred chicks,” he said. “Boy, you are serious about this chicken farming,” the man told him.

“Yeah,” the yuppie replied. “If I can iron out a few problems.” “Problems?” asked the proprietor. “Yeah,” replied the yuppie, “I think I planted that last batch too close together.”

Bad Chicken Jokes


The devout cowboy lost his Bible while he was out on the range.
A few days later, a chicken walked up to him carrying the Bible in its mouth.
The cowboy couldn’t believe his eyes.
He took his Bible from the chicken, raised his eyes heavenward and shouted,  “It’s a miracle!”
“Not really,” said the chicken. “Your name is written inside the cover.”

Drunk Chicken
A man and his chicken walk into a bar, ready for a good night of drinking.
They start slowly, watching TV, drinking beer, eating peanuts. As time goes on they move to mixed drinks, and then shooters till the bartender says: “Last call.”
So, the man calls out, “One more for me… and one more for my chicken.”
The bartender sets them up and they shoot them back. Suddenly, the chicken falls over dead.
The man puts on his coat and starts to leave.
The bartender, yells: “Hey buddy, you can’t just leave that lyin’ there.”
To which the man replies: “That’s not a lion, that’s a chicken.

A man in a movie theater is surprised to see a chicken sitting next to him.
“Are you really a chicken?” asked the man?
“What are you doing at the movies?”
The chicken replied, “ I liked the book.

Checking Bonnie and Clyde Out of the Chicken Library


imageI guess Spring is really here.  Aunt Betty called.  She just checked out eight hens and one rooster from the chicken library where she lives up in Kansas.  The rooster hangs out with his favorite hen, so Aunt Betty named them Bonnie and Clyde.  I guess it’s not really a chicken library, but that’s how it works for Aunt Betty.  She has a deal worked out with one of her neighbors to get chickens in the nice weather, returning them for the winter.  She has the pleasure of chickens and eggs without the misery of over-wintering them.  What a great neighbor!

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The More Things Change (part 2)

imageAs I hold my tiny granddaughter, I remember melting into Grandma’s pillowy softness, smelling her Cashmere Bouquet Talcum Powder, unaware she’d ever played any role but “Grandma.” Though I’d always heard Mother address her as “Mama” I stung with jealousy when I found out Grandma actually was her mother. Sure, I was her favorite grandchild, I later learned the other kids thought the same things, the mark of a good grandmother.

We only visited Grandma In summers, since she lived a few hours away.  I loved following her to tend the chickens where She made that praise Della, her Dominecker Hen for laying a double-yoked egg yesterday, remarking to the others they might consider doing the same. She told Sally not to start acting “Broody.” She didn’t have enough her eggs to “set” her yet. She counted her chickens and found Susie missing. Grandma got a long stick and poked under bushes till she flushed Susie out from her “stolen” nest. I felt so important crawling way under the bush bringing two warm eggs. Chiding Juanita, an ornery red hen, she threatened to invite her to Sunday Dinner, saying “You’ll make some mighty fine dumplings if you don’t lay a couple of eggs this week!” I wasn’t that invested in Juanita and don’t recall whether we had dumplings or not.  Once I had the thrill of seeing Grandma fearlessly make short work of a black chicken snake lounging in a nest with an egg in his mouth.  Unbelievably, she grabbed him barehanded and slung him to the ground, where she dispatched him to snake heaven with the shovel she always carried outdoors.

Daily, we walked her yard, shovel in hand,checking out the flowers, moving one or two that needed a better home, filling a hole here, rooting out a weed there.  She gathered tomatoes, okra, and squash from the garden, later serving them at lunch, tomatoes still warm from the sun.  Before one, we made the ritual walk to the mailbox with a letter or two.  Grandma often got two or three letters a day since she wrote to numerous friends and relatives.  She’d read these to us as a group, “Oh!  Winnie’s girl Opal’s little girl is a princess in the school play.  She’s your third cousin.  All of Winnie’s kids did good.  They were all smart as whips!” going on to tell us stories of her girlhood with the distant Wiinie.

I envied my unknown cousin, though I’d never wanted to be a princess before or since.  Sometimes, the letters included pictures, which we poured over.

As my granddaughter and I relaxed in a dear friend’s garden, I collected cleome seed to share with her sometime down the road, a reminder of this day.  I do hope my little one recalls sweet stories of our our times together.

Mr. Bradley and the Old Floozies

imageMr. Bradley died! Mr. Bradley died!

This was unbelievable! I had seen people get shot on “Gunsmoke,” but I’d never known anyone who had actually died. I knew I was supposed to cry when someone died but I couldn’t manage it. First of all, Mr. Bradley was an old grouch. He wore khaki pants and shirt and an old gray felt hat with oil stains around the hat band. He was really selfish. He had built us a chicken house. When I went out later to investigate, I found thirteen dollars rolled up lying In the chicken poop just inside the chicken house. I went flying in the house with my treasure to show Mother. I was of the opinion, “finders keepers, losers weepers” but Mother took me straight to the Bradleys’ to see if Mr. Bradley had lost money. He had…thirteen dollars. I held the money out to him, expecting him to say, “Just keep it” like my parents did when I found a nickel or dime they’d dropped. He snatched that money and stuck it straight in his pocket, grumping something at me. I was very disappointed in his bad manners.

Anyway, a few days later he died, probably of selfishness. Mother baked a three layer chocolate cake and took to his house without even giving us one bite!! Now he had my thirteen dollars and my chocolate cake. I didn’t know what a dead man needed a chocolate cake for, but nobody asked me. The good news was, his funeral was the next day. I was in the second grade and wise to the ways of funerals. Kids got to skip school for funerals. The bad news was, I wasn’t skipping school. Mother pointed out kids only got to skip for a family funeral. I looked around hopefully at my family, but they all looked disgustingly healthy.

Billy hadn’t started school yet, so he was going. That really made me mad. Little kids got everything. While I trudged off to get on the bus, he waved and grinned.

He was waiting for me at the door that afternoon with all the details. The funeral was scary. “Miss Alice and the big girls cried a lot. Miss Alice kissed Mr. Bradley’s cold, dead lips, he sat up in the coffin, held his arms out and said, ‘ Ughhhh, Ughhhh, Ughhh.’ Miss Alice screamed and fainted. It took two men to wrestle him back down and shut the coffin lid on him. Everyone else screamed and ran out.” I was furious he got to see all that while I was stuck in school. Mother said none of that happened. “Billy talked during the service and had to be taken out.” I knew better. I had missed the most exciting event of my life while I was stuck in school.

Not long afterward my luck changed. A family member died. I was going to a funeral!! Even though I’d never heard of her, Great Aunt Nora was now my favorite relative simply by being gracious enough to die and provide me with my first funeral experience. I would have loved her more had her funeral gotten me out of a day of school, but I was still thrilled!! We got up early Saturday morning, put on our best clothes and started the long drive to the funeral. Mother didn’t bake a cake since we were “family” and would go to her home afterwards for visitation and a meal. Hot dog!!!! Maybe someone would bring chocolate cake.

The funeral was more than I had hoped for. The church was old, dark, and obviously haunted. We were late as always and crept into a back pew. I was disappointed not to get to sit with family, but the back pew was better for getting the full show. Mother lined us up on the pew in hopes of maintaining maximum control. She held Marilyn, the little baby and made Billy sit right next to her. Phyllis sat in the middle, holding Connie, the big baby. I was stuffed in between Phyllis (Miss Perfect) and Daddy. I gave the funeral my full attention. . Aunt Nora was laid out in a coffin in front of the altar with only her beaked nose visible over the edge. All I could really see was the backs of the mourners, two old ladies together with some of my aunts, uncles, and cousins who got there in time to be “family.” The old ladies cried some during the hymns, but the real show started at the end when the family filed by for the final viewing. Anna Mae and Theo, the ancient, bereaved daughters were supported by my uncles as they approached their mother’ body. They had to have been in their late seventies since Aunt Nora was ninety-eight. I’d never seen anything like them. They were the skinniest women I’d ever seen, wearing satin dresses and hats from their much earlier and plumper days. Anna Mae was in an crusty black satin dress. It was shockingly low cut, especially on an old lady with no bosoms to flaunt. Theo wore an equally interesting red dress with a daring sheer lace bodice. Both girls had probably been enchanting when they last wore those outfits back in their twenties. Their black hats had sequined veils draped alluringly over their faces. They were both so emaciated their seamed stockings drifted in the breeze around their legs. The rhinestones going up the seams their stockings more than made up for the roomy fit.

The best was yet to come. Uncle July held Anna Belle and Uncle Ed held Theo as they stood before their mother for the last time. They each kissed their Mother’s cold, wrinkled lips and erupted into howls of grief. They were pretty lively for old ladies. Theo fainted first, inspiring her sister. My uncles looked like they wished they were any place else as they lowered them to the floor while trying to keep the oversized clothes in place. Just as they got one situated, the other would rouse up. Buoyed by her grief, she’d would rush to the coffin and start all over. Eventually, they wore themselves out and allowed themselves to be led out.

Aunt Nora’s house was a relic from the Civil War era, not a well-maintained showplace, just a relic. It was in the older part of town. The fence was so overgrown with bushes the house was not visible, even though the front door was no more than twenty feet from the street. The house was huge, but decrepit. We had to walk carefully to avoid holes in the porch. There was actually an organ in the creepy entry way, just like in horror movies. The living room was cluttered beyond belief. Spider webs hung like draperies in the corners. Cats lounged on all the furniture. Mother looked around briefly for a place to lay her sleeping baby. Anna Mae tried to shoo a big Tom Cat off the sofa, but Theo said, “Leave him be. He’s dead.” Mother said not to bother. She’d been sitting all morning.

The best was yet to come. When Anna Mae and Theo took off their mysterious hats, I couldn’t believe their faces. They were heavily made up, faces powdered deathly white, blood red lipstick feathering out into a multitude of wrinkles surrounding their lips, circles of brilliant pink rouge on their bony cheeks. Jet black eyebrows were drawn in the approximate eyebrow areas, giving the overall impression of startled mania. Wispy crowns of frizzed, jet black hair bushed out, apparently relieved to free of the musty hats. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

I could hear the sounds of a meal being prepared in the next room. Maybe there would be chocolate cake. We were summoned into the enormous dining room, where someone had recently cleared the table of rubbish and cat hair. Mother looked around in a panic and said, “Oh no, we just ate.” an obvious lie since we had all just come from the service with the rest of the group . Daddy shot her a look, and we got in line.

Mother went first, fixed us paper plates from the dishes with covers, and sent us out to the porch to eat, far out of cat territory. Sure enough, there was a beautiful chocolate cake in the center of the table, complete with fluttering cat hair, but Mother wouldn’t let us have any. She warned us not to even ask for coconut pie. She and Phyllis fed the babies, shooing the cats out of their food, while Daddy reminisced with his relatives. The cats resented the invasion of their territory, and spent the entire time trying to jump on the table. They walked daintily, stepping over plates and utensils, never disturbing anything but prissy guests. One of my aunts tried discreetly to remove some of the dishes the cats had stepped over, but Theo said not to bother. The cat hadn’t dropped any fleas. The old ladies fed the cats off their plates. When I asked to use the bathroom, Mother told Daddy we had to get on home. He said he wanted to visit a little longer, but for once, Mother got her way and we left. She must have had to go, too. She made Daddy stop at a service station, let everyone use the bathroom, and made us all wash up. Even the babies got a washup and they hadn’t touched anything

Daddy had an incredible capacity for overlooking bizarre, inappropriate, or hormone-driven behavior in his relatives while zeroing in on anything Mother and us kids might do, attributing our shortcomings to “Mother’s crazy family.” His family could have frolicked naked on the town square and he’d have only complimented their grace, while we got in trouble for wiggling in church. I had a million questions and knew asking the most interesting first would end the conversation. Daddy was always on the lookout for opportunities to keep us on the straight and narrow, so I played stupid first. “Those were beautiful dresses. I’ve never seen anything so fancy.” Daddy explained they must have had those dresses for years. “But they’re so fancy with all those diamonds and lace, and the backs of their stockings had diamonds. Mother, can you get stockings with diamonds?” Daddy answered for her. “No she can’t. Now be quiet. “

Knowing I had overshot the mark and would glean no more information, I smothered my grief with boredom and slept the rest of the way home, dreaming of the next funeral I’d be lucky enough to attend.

The Tragic Tale of the Hen-Flogged Indian Princess

This is a story my mother told us dozens of times of her experience with a Mother Hen.  It didn’t save me from having the same problem.  This is her original art.indian-dress-and-henFor my birthday, Mama made me an Indian outfit. By now, I’d been around the chickens long enough to know a mother hen would jump all over anyone getting near their chicks.  I’d already been flogged trying it.  This was different.  In my Indian dress, I was brave and invincible.  I played pretend in the yard shooting several  buffaloes  with my bow, saving the tribe from starvation, single-handedly.  As I rode my horse, Midnight, bareback across the prairie, my long black braids flowed behind me. I had actually imagined myself up two horses. Midnight, a black stallion with a white mane and tail and Silver a white stallion with black mane and tail. If only I’d thought to imagine Silver was a mare, they could have created their own imaginary colt, but that never crossed my mind. They were both wild and would allow no one else to ride them.  When I rode one, the other ran along with us.  Deep in my fantasy, I slaughtered a bear and saved the chief, who by the way, was desperate to marry me.  I was having none of it.   I rode into the chicken yard, bravely scooping up a baby chick.  Mother Hen ignored my two stallions,  Indian dress, and the long black braids flowing behind me. In a split second, she was on my head, squawking, pecking, flogging, and scratching till I gladly dropped her baby.  I’d never been so disillusioned in my life.  That hen had no imagination whatsoever!!!

Afternoon Funny

Mike the Headless Chicken (Rooster)

May 11 – FRUITA – While most communities observe Colorado Heritage Week with events dedicated to pioneers, the town of Fruita has decided to celebrate with something that only the Western Slope town can crow about. Rupert PumpkinMike the Headless Chicken Day on Sunday will honor a 1940s rooster who for 4 1/2 years strutted around, fattened up on grain and preened for hens – all without a head.

Mike lost his head in 1945 when a Fruita farmer, anticipating a chicken dinner, lopped off the head of a young Wyandotte rooster. Instead of croaking and getting sent to the cooking pot, Mike the rooster wobbled away from the chopping block and resumed his temporarily interrupted barnyard activities with the rest of the heads-on chickens.

His headless life garnered him spreads in Life and Time magazines and a listing in the Guinness Book of Records. He had his own manager and toured the country in sideshows with a two-headed calf. He was studied by scientists, who determined an intact brain stem was keeping Mike going.

Mike’s fame faded out after he finally died from choking on a corn kernel, but now headless Mike is in for a revival of sorts.

Mike the Headless Chicken Day will feature a 5K Run Like a Headless Chicken race, egg tosses, chicken jokes, a chicken lunch and chicken bingo, in which numbers are chosen by where chicken droppings fall on a numbered grid. There will also be music, microbrew competitions and historic tours of the town.

“To celebrate our history in Fruita, we wanted to have something light-hearted,” said Sally Edington, executive director of the Fruita Chamber of Commerce. “We wanted to celebrate this little guy because he was very determined to live. We like that.”

According to old accounts in the Fruita Times newspaper, Mike’s determination first showed itself Sept. 10, 1945, when farmer L.A. Olsen tried to please his mother-in-law while he was slaughtering dinner. Her favorite fried-chicken piece was the neck, so Olsen carefully placed his ax to leave as much neck as possible on Mike’s body.

Chickens have been known to flutter around for seconds or minutes after being decapitated, but after a few shaky steps, Mike fluffed up his feathers and went about his business in the barnyard with the other, heads on chickens. He went through the motions of pecking for food, preening his feathers and tucking what used to be his head under his wing when he slept. He tried to crow, but only a gurgle came out.

When he was still alive the following morning, Olsen decided he might be more valuable as an oddity than a dinner and started dropping grain and water into his gullet opening with an eyedropper.

When Mike was still alive a week later, Olsen packed him up and took him to Salt Lake City so incredulous University of Utah scientists could study him. From that time on, Olsen and a manager he hired were the ones running around like chickens with their heads cut off. They took Mike and Mike’s head, which Olsen had preserved in alcohol, to Los Angeles, San Diego, Atlantic City and New York City. They set up photo shoots with magazines and newspapers and kibitzed with scientists across the country.

Olsen also dealt with predecessors of animal-rights activists, who blasted him for leaving a chicken alive in such a state. They begged him to finish the hatchet job on the Mike. But Fruita old-timers remember that Mike grew and thrived and didn’t seem much bothered by being minus a head. Gayle Meyer, who interviewed Olsen in the 1980s before he died, said he described Mike as “a robust chicken – a fine specimen of a chicken except for not having a head.” Copyright 1999 The Denver Post.