From raising chickens, to running from demons | Our Corner

Life decisions are funny things. The bad thing about actually making a decision is that you have made a decision, which I believe is the reason for male pattern baldness.

Life decisions are funny things.

The bad thing about actually making a decision is that you have made a decision, which I believe is the reason for male pattern baldness.

There are genetic reasons for lifelong procrastination and ambivalence.

This column could take a number of forks in the road – elections, religion, government transparency.

The most illuminating in my view are chickens.

A certain reporter in our office (she shall remain anonymous, but we will refer to her as Theresa De Lay) found herself the owner and keeper of six baby chicks this weekend that will very soon be chickens.

Chicks into chickens – it is the transformation of yellow innocence into a roving demon from the depths.

A reader may wonder why I take this dim view of the simple and plain gallus gallus domesticus.

I was raised on a farm until about the sixth grade. One of my jobs that I couldn’t whine my way out of (I was the youngest and had the most hair) was taking care of the stupid chickens.

When my dad bought chickens they came in a big crate of 50, half chickens and half demons.

All but one of the roosters were soon directed to the dinner table. But the one remaining was always the ghoul from down under.

Not once did we ever get Mr. Fun and Friendly Rooster, and I did my best to be cozy while I was running for my life across the field with the stupid beast right on my heels.

As I remember it, the dopey rooster always grew to about five feet with horns.

The worst part is I had to bring my grandma with me to whack the beast into submission with her house broom. Bringing my grandma with me to fight a rooster … sheez.

So when I heard about Theresa’s chicken nuggets, I suddenly began rambling about Beelzebub and the end of times. When she told me the chicken hacker said all the chicks were females, I knew a dark conspiracy was afoot.

A certain reporter may think I have cracked one egg too many, but when she is running for the safety of her French doors, with a wing-flapping, red fiend in pursuit, I will once again be, humbly, Mr. Always Right.

The circle of life means we make a decision when forced into it, hold hands, sing happy Disney songs and wait for the chicken beast to rise.

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