Why Did the Chicken Crash the Party
It wasn't to cross the road
Karen cornered me with that staring thing she does.
“I talked to Greg. He told me about your bachelor's party.”
“Oh?” I said, casually reaching for a chip. It shattered like my composure.
“He said something about… a fucking chicken?”
I sighed. “Okay. Yes. There was a chicken. But not like you think.”
She folded her arms. “Try me.”
“It started with beer. And then someone said we needed ‘symbolic freedom’ before marriage. Enter Tony, with a duffel bag and zero judgment.”
“The chicken was in the duffel bag?”
“Sort of. She was in a little tuxedo vest. Named Peeponcé. Very dignified.”
Karen blinked. “You named the chicken?”
“She had a presence.”
I went on, helpless. “We crowned her ‘Queen of the Single Men.’ Had a dance circle. Greg cried. Then she pooped in Kyle’s shoe and flew into the ceiling fan.”
Karen’s face twitched. Her lips fought it, but a grin cracked through.
“You absolute idiot,” she said.
“She’s fine! Kevin adopted her. Built a coop. They do yoga now.”
Karen shook her head, laughing. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I know.”
She pointed. “Next party, I pick the entertainment.”
“Fair.”
“Also? No birds.”
“Unless they’re in a tuxedo.”
“Don’t push it.”
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