I’m stuck on chickens right now. KFC is my favorite fast food restaurant—much to my chagrin when it comes to cholesterol level—and I’ve been eating egg salad on toast just about every day for 18 months. But what really strikes my fancy is their entertainment value.
I’m telling you, I feel pretty ducky when I go to bed with the chickens, probably because I’m no longer a spring chicken. I tend not to run around the next day like a chicken with its head cut off. Most people think I’m a good egg with a sunny-side-up personality, but others might tell themselves, “You have to take the feet with the feathers.”
During the day, I’m often home alone so, generally speaking, there’s nobody here but us chickens. I’m trying to build a nest egg, but I’m barely scratching out a living. I’m a mother hen when it comes to my chicks, and I’d get madder than a wet hen if someone crossed them. You’d hear me squawk, for sure.
I’m neither a dumb cluck nor a bird brain. Sometimes I'm a chicken; but, if I make up my mind to do something, I don’t chicken out easily.
I hope I haven’t laid an egg with this blog entry.
By the way, I will write for chicken feed.