Actual chicken e-mails
E-MAIL FROM HEATHER TO JACK AND STEPHANIE:
I can't imagine the torture my chicken has endured.
The poor thing, to go from the safety of my purse and then be taken away to a foreign place and subjected to visions of Jack's hairy back.
It's just wrong.
He wanted to be by our side tonight, safely tucked into the night stand where he belongs. Is there no mercy?
How could Tommy have let this happen.
I blame him.
No.
I blame myself for not being a more thorough safeguard.
I don't want to be one of those people who stops taking the chicken out at night. I don't want to deprive him of living a full life. But how can I trust people at this point?
These were people I trusted, friends (I thought).
I can hear his silent clucking in the distance and I must warn you, I know this trick with my elbow that I learned when I accidentally broke a girl's nose in summer camp when I was 12.
What if he got away? What if he was lost in the gutter, dropped inadvertently, washed down into the storm drain with all the errant cigarette butts that accumulate in the gutter?
What if he was washed in vomit from a group of people playing air hockey who were celebrating a friend's 21st birthday?
Woah, woah, woah.
Then there is the anger. Why has God, the Goddess or the Gods that may be inflicted this pain upon me and my plastic, molded one? I miss his sweet red spiky hair and the dangling of his legs as they were folded into my back-pack purse.
(Shaking head uncontrollably, rocking back and forth with pain).
We also want our stubs inside from the events we went to, our memories that are important to us. Those can never be replaced.
Heather and Tommy
IN A MESSAGE DATED 2/2/07 chicochicken WRITES:
It was fun drinking booze out of a straw and sitting in a glass ... not a proud moment but quite fun ... Who knew my chicken legs would help me win the dance contest and voted No. 1 disco duck... I hear my captors whispering all the time ... something about taking me out again tonight and putting me through the tortures of dancing and karaoke ... secretly, I cant wait... I’m quite safe but ... the ceiling is spinning quack quack quack... >> He was so grateful he said he would never divulge his mysterious powers for prose. If I don't get him back soon, I'll be fired and likely relegated to applying for the job writing fortune cookie fortunes in a dive restaurant in an urban city core. Then our friendship will truly be diluted. Besides his obvious talent as a writer, (I do have to edit some as occasionally his claws miss-click), he has become a trusted friend and traveling companion. My pain is immense, but in no way will I negotiate for any ransom. You better watch your back because Danny Brasco (recently out of the witness protection agency after the death of several mobsters) and Alec Trebek are on your trail. I'm still considering whether or not I will ever forgive you. HH
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cluck cluck cluck
(Chicken at a time when debauchery was just a word in his dictionary).
HEATHER REPLIED:
How you coerced my chicken to write that e-mail is astounding. He promised me he would never reveal his talents as a writer. Before I met him, he was writing fortune cookie fortunes in a dive restaurant in Chinatown. I rescued him from that useless life and to be honest, he has been writing my Sow There! column for the past two years.
Comments
You are hilarious! I love your column. Thanks for the laughs with "Chicken Emails."
Posted by: Emily | February 13, 2007 06:30 PM