Secret Lives of Chicken

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now.

 

At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what words they got and how they used them.  

My words are:

My favorite story ~ the run away chicken ~ hilarity ~  ridonkulous

They were submitted by: http://www.eviljoyspeaks.wordpress.com

My name is Bessie and I am a chicken.

This is my favorite story...

I live in Kentucky. Yup...THAT Kentucky...you know, the one where the fried chicken comes from. You'd think that, living here in Kentucky, where chicken is freely fried, I'd pack up and move.

But no.

Here I stay, refusing to be the runaway chicken. 

My family packed up and left a few years ago. They begged and they pleaded for me to go, but I held fast in my stubbornness. I was born in this great state and, by god, I was going to die here. 

On MY terms.

Hey...stop laughing! There is absolutely no hilarity in this situation!

Where was I? Oh..... so off goes my family, leaving me behind. They were running from the chicken man....he's the man that goes around to farms and picks chickens to take a dip in the bath of oil. Rumor had it, our farm was next on his list to come pick. Being that my family is among the finer chicken families here, we just KNEW we'd get picked. So they left to avoid that.

Me? Nah....I stayed out of sheer curiosity. I wanted to see how this played out. I wanted to see what happened. Only, I was being smart about it. I didn't stick around the farm and wait to be sent of to a warm death. Oh no, I took off the for the little fort that the little farmer boy built in the woods. It was long forgotten, so I knew I'd be safe. 

The dark day came, where the picker came to pick. I hightailed it out of the hen house and into my little hideaway, where I could see the action. What I saw, however......it was RIDONKULOUS! Because there was no picker. Nope......no one came to the farm. The person that decided on the chickens to be sent to the fryer..........

WAS ME!

Because I'm not a chicken at all. I'm just a man in a chicken suit.

Hey, cluck off and see what my friends did! Thanks!!

http://bakinginatornado.com                      Baking In A Tornado

http://followmehome.shellybean.com              Follow me home . . .

http://stacysewsandschools.wordpress.com       Stacy Sews and Schools

http://www.outmannedmommy.com/              Outmanned

http://www.someoneelsesgenius.com                Someone Else’s Genius

http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/               Confessions of a part-time working mom

http://www.themomisodes.com                   The Momisodes

http://www.impoverishedvegan.com               Impoverished Vegan

http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com              Spatulas on Parade

http://batteredhope.blogspot.com                     Battered Hope

http://www.eviljoyspeaks.wordpress.com            Evil Joy Speaks

http://www.JuiceboxConfession.com                      Juicebox Confession