Homer

[whispering_surrender]

Ella, what a lark! Let's see if anyone else joins in. Then we start a thread, then we get everyone to use headless chicken AVs...

Perdita

I am DEFINITELY NOT going to share my stories of childhood on a farm since I can't afford that many people sending me psychiatric bills! But, I do sympathize 'Dita and SheReads. *hugs*

Whisper

 

[shereads]

Where are the new pictures of Homer?

Did we frighten him with our Gruesome True Tales tangent? I promise not to mention my grandfather's recipe for....um....nothing. Biscuits. Yes, biscuits that was it.

HOMER!!! WE NEED PICTURES OF YOUR TODDLER YEARS (HOURS)!!!

 

[Mhari]

Let us just be grateful that Homer is not evil attack squirrel of death!

One of the funniest freakin' things I've read in a good long time. I was really ROFLMAOAFTC!

 

[shereads]

Is there something you're not telling us about baby Homer?

No pictures?

No bad news, I hope...

Did Homer have to go away to live on the "farm out in the country" where my parents took our cocker spaniel, Snooks, after he tried to bite my cousin?

 

[Quasimodem]

Egg Flew One

As soon as I could walk, I became my grandfathers tail. Wherever he went, I followed. He had lived with my parents for several years before I was born. I spent my first four years either in his wake, or at his side.

Grandad kept chickens. That was one of the jobs he had set himself that had not become too difficult. Every day he would feed them, and each morning he collected eggs. I , of course, followed.

One Sunday, when I was about three, we were expecting Sunday visitors who would probably stay for supper. We were to have fried chicken.

I followed Grandad as he walked behind the house, and stepped into the pen to extract a nice plump chicken. He carried it over to the woodshed, and I followed behind.

He pulling out the axe, which was so sharp, I was not permitted to touch it. Grandad stretched the chicken's neck across the chopping block, and then dropped the axe onto its neck.

Instantly, the chicken hopped back, and began running. Perhaps because the ground fell away in a fifteen degree slope toward the end of our property, the chicken followed the garden path which ran in that direction. As I have had cause to learn later, chickens usually dance in circles, but this – the first I was to see – ran straight and true.

Picking up speed as it went down the grade, a spurt of blood shooting up out of its severed neck with every stride, the chicken ran along the garden path, its useless wings flapping spasmodically. Well before it reached the end of the path, it took off.

I have often wondered at the chicken's accomplishment.

Was it the two ounces – mostly bone – that had been removed that made it suddenly lighter? Perhaps, removal of the head meant that its wings could flap freely, no longer constrained by the impediment of its brain to restrict flight? Or, probably it was the speed and the downward angled runway that helped it get airborne.

At any rate, the chicken was travelling at a great rate of speed (for a chicken) and at an altitude of two to three feet, when it crashed headlong (minus the head) into the chain link fence at the end of the garden, and rebounded a good eight to ten feet. There it hit the ground, gave a few last kicks, and remained forever still.

Throughout the following years, chickens have loomed large in my family's history. (At one time we raised 80,000 broilers a year in four bunches of 20,000, every three months.) I am not one whit sentimental about chickens.

The best thing you can do, is to eat an egg, and save a chicken from the shame of existence. If a chicken has the misfortune to be born, to kill and eat it, is to do it a favour. I do not expect the chicken to be raised to a higher level, but at least it no longer has to suffer the degradation of being a chicken.

 

[shereads]

May your days be merry and bright
and may all your Christmases be white.



Man. Quasi, as horrific as our dancing chicken stories are, at least neither of us was sitting on the toilet like poor Perdita when the poor bird did the Guillotine Cha-Cha.

I read "Fast Food Nation" so I could give up McDonalds. Maybe I'd have been better off starting a thread here about godawful deaths of farm animals...

 

[Guest]

It breaks my heart break to do it, but I've bumped this especially for Sher and Pops.

Homer, we love you.

Lou

 

[sincerely_helene]

I tried to breed a dog once, but the bitch wanted me to buy her dinner first.

(ummm... I think I may have waited to long to post this. Now I just sound sick.)

Ok. Who turned off my delete option?

 

[shereads]

It breaks my heart break to do it, but I've bumped this especially for Sher and Pops.

Homer, we love you.

Lou

What a nice thing to see before the laptop blows away.



Homer visited me in a dream. He has a full head of hair, parted on the left, and more than his share of tail.

 

[Vincent E]

In regards to Homer

Is he named after a Greek author or a yellow cartoon character?

D'oh!

 

[shereads]

Sorry.... no headband or earrings.

But he is still a cute little dude.

~WOK

That is one cute rodent.

I still think he'd have felt better about himself with some sort of hat.