Skip to main content

#ChickenDrivers



This is what I see on a daily basis in my rearview mirror. People who morph into chickens.  I'm stuck at a red light. A fun activity. Other than trying to distract myself from a blinker that sounds like "Let's go! let's go! let's go!" I turn my attention to my friend. My rearview mirror.  The scene is someone looking down at their cell phone with a case of chicken turrets. Chicken fingers, thumbs, bopping heads and sideways glances. Looking out for cops or maybe a better shade of green. They don't care about the guy in front, me,  clearly indicating that I know what they are doing. I raise my hands in the air pretend I have an invisible cell phone and I point in a downward motion asking them to politely hang up the frigging phone. Well, it starts out polite. Soon chicken fingers turn into just a couple of middle fingers and a bunch of f-bombs. Chicken Neck is mad and drives like all madmen with a small penis, fast and loud.


Thanks for stopping by. If you like my stories, I would love to hear from you. Feel free to comment and share.


Denny D

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Humming

We have a rose of Sharon bush in front of our  living room window. Every year it attracts humingbirds. Now the blooms are bursting with color. I patiently waited for this little guy to return.  Expectation and joy brings colors to life. The fluttering of wings, the souls delight.  To savor the nectar of a the new day. That is just the hummingbirds way.

A pane in the glass

One pane of glass. One red, white and blue basketball. And one frustrating day in the window repair business.    My father was very good at repairing windows. He had plenty of practice. Our backyard was our arena, our stadium and the scene of many sporting errors.  Who done it? It all started on our one-lane road.  Every homeowner could hear the crack of the bat and then the smash of a ball. Where it came from, no one knew. We split, leaving the bat suspended just above the dust cloud. Not a kid in sight. Who done it was an unsolved mystery. All they could see was the weapon, the bat, the ball and the glass now littering the living room floor. Opps Things were different in our backyard. A wayward slapshot way upstairs. Crash. A change-up and a foul tip. Smash. Today's error: a basketball. A hook shot, nothing but air and glass. Bang. Shortly after the initial impact we heard something else, my father cuss "Friggin Kids" It was the only f word my dad was all...

Teachers Toast

One class I wasn't a big fan of was Home Ec. I had already learned most of what I needed to know from my mother and my sisters. Mr. Long, our teacher and chef, is dressed in white, from his paper chef's hat down to his shoes. He has two prominent features: a  Fu Manchu moustache and a wandering eye. For that reason (not knowing which one to look into), I never engaged in conversation.  Today's lesson is breakfast preparation. Some kids are across the hall, setting up the teacher lounge for breakfast. Every place setting is decorated meticulously. There is a huge coffee urn gurgling in the corner. Teachers are hovering, waiting for their morning elixir.   I am in the kitchen learning how to paint lightly browned Texas toast with butter. Every slice has a round circle of yellow that never seems to reach the edges, stacked on a plate. I never understood why they gave us a paintbrush instead of a knife. I found this unacceptable. I have never spread my favourite spreadables t...