Nothing Says Love Like a Big Metal Chicken

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Tell Us About These Chickens

Then we flagged down a salesman and said, "What can you tell us about these chickens?" as if we were in an art gallery and not in a store that specializes in last year's bath mats. He didn't know anything about them but he said that they'd only sold one and it was to a really drunk lady, and then Laura and I said, "Sold. All this chicken belongs to us now."

So he loaded it onto a trolley, but Beyoncé was surprisingly unstable, and the giant five-foot metal chicken crashed over onto the floor. Laura and I yelled, "Chicken down! Cleanup in aisle 3!" but he didn't laugh. Then the manager came to see what was causing all the commotion, and that's when he found the very conservative salesman unhappily struggling to right an enthusiastically pointy chicken, which was almost as tall as he was. The salesman was having a hard time, and he told everyone to stand back "because this chicken will cut you," and at first I thought he meant it as a threat, like "That chicken has a knife," but turns out he just meant that all the chicken's ends were sharp and rusty. It was awesome, and Laura and I agreed that even if we got tetanus, this chicken had already paid for himself before we got it out of the store.

When we got to my house, Laura and I quietly snuck the chicken up to my front door, rang the doorbell, and hid around the corner. Victor opened the door and looked at the chicken in stunned silence for about three seconds. Then he sighed, closed the door, and walked away.

Laura: What the hell? That's it? That's the only reaction we get?
Me: That's it, he's a very hard man to rattle.

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Continued on page 3:  Who's at the Door?


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