Saturday 03 Dec 2016

Rained on Chickens
Matt Seinberg

Since the last couple of columns took a serious tone on serious subjects, I thought it was time to get a little silly, again. There's a fellow, at work, who's originally from Africa. Though his mastery of English is very good, some of his pronunciations and verbiage can be very funny.


"Being rained on as chicken."

One of his sayings is "...being a rained on chicken." Huh? I had to get an explanation of that. Was it something serious dressed up as something funny, or did he mean to be funny in the first place? It means someone who is moping around, feeling sorry for themselves because they're having a bad day.

Yeah, that makes sense. I guess if you were a wet chicken, you wouldn't be too happy. Chickens aren't the smartest animals after all, so that makes you wonder if they have enough sense to get out of the rain and into their coop.


A multiple choice question: why did the chicken cross the road?

That brings up another ago old question, why did the chicken cross the road? The standard answer is "to get to the other side." Why did he want to get to the other side? Here are some common answers that have come up over the years.

(1) The farmer was chasing him.

(2) Colonel Sanders wanted to cook him

(3) Little Betsy, the farmer’s daughter, wanted to dress him up for a tea party.

(4) He had a hot date with hen on another farm, across the road.

(5) It wanted to catch the bus and retire in Florida.

I suppose if I were a wet chicken, I wouldn't be too happy and would want to retire to Florida. Imagine going to work after a rainstorm drenches you and everyone was laughing at you because all your feathers were wet. Sorry, if your clothes were all wet and there was nothing to change except an over sized chicken costume. The only solution is to go buy another set of clothes.

What's a chicken to do? They can't run out and buy another set of feathers or put something on over them. That would be even more ridiculous. The other chickens in the coop can be so cruel at times.


The work part of being a chicken.

The worst thing about being a chicken is your sole purpose in life, human food. How would you feel knowing that your lifespan was predetermined to be only 6-12 months; six months if MacDonald’s has a price on your head?

Do the chickens party all night after the farmer closes up the coop for the night? Do they break out the bottle of Jack Daniels to get drunk and go streaking around the coop? Are they aware 8.5 billion of their relatives and friends used for human food each year?

When the day comes and someone smothers them, do their short lives flash in front of them, with happy memories of those drunken parties across the road?

There are so many ways to cook chicken; I couldn't begin to name them all. My favorites are Chicken Parmesan, Chicken Marsala, fried chicken, roasted chicken and, my favorite, the chicken cutlet hero. I usually have that on a whole-wheat hero, with lettuce, tomato, bacon, coleslaw, American cheese and Thousand Island dressing.

I'm getting hungry just thinking about it.

Just remember one thing. When you're having a bad day, there's a chicken out there somewhere having a worse day than are you. Just imagine running around like a rained on chicken.


Matt Seinberg lives on Long Island, a few minutes east of New York City. He looks at everything around him and notices much. Somewhat less cynical than dyed in the wool New Yorkers, Seinberg believes those who don't see what he does like reading about what he sees and what it means to him. Seinberg columns revel in the silly little things of life and laughter as well as much well-directed anger at inept, foolish public officials. Mostly, Seinberg writes for those who laugh easily at their own foibles as well as those of others.

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