ReAd ChicKens' Butts aND cOcONUtS bEFOrE IT'S TOO LATE!!!!!

I’m just breezin’ along with the breeze, breezin’ along

with the breeze. Hey, Hi, everyone. It’s me again! Hasn’t the

book been egg-citing so far? Did you think I’d be too chicken

to write a second chapter? I guess I’m coming out of my

shell. That’s no yoke! Some people say I’m cracked and

others think I’m just a dumb cluck. But someday, I’ll be at

the beak of my career. So, please, don’t cry fowl and start

and international hen-cident.

Have you noticed a chicken theme in Chapter 2? Have

you also noticed the author of this book being an eensy bit

paranoid? (Just a side note: Is it the teeny weenie, itsy

bitsy, inky dinky or eensy weensie spider that went up the

water spout?) My red-haired sinister is not the main reason

I’m paranoid. Actually, the root cause is------(dum dum dum

dum – dramatic music) chickens’ butts and coconuts.

Let me take you back to my childhood. (harp music and

fog from a machine) back, baaack, baaaack, (echo)

baaaaaaaaaack, baaaaaaaaaack. (We spare no expense on the

special effects.)

There I was in my Buster Browns and my corduroy. Cute

as a bug. Innocent. Unsuspecting. Minding my own business.

(Let’s face it, I was precious.) My world was peaceful, secure

and satisfying. Until the “day!” I remember it ever so clearly.

It was a Sunday morning and the golden sunbeams were

streaming through the lace curtains like gentle laser beams

from an alien warship. Everything seemed so normal. Dad was

reading the Post Dispatch, Mom was in the kitchen, my

brothers and sisters were watching Kukla, Fran and Ollie.

How was I to know that this would be the most—no wait,

let’s try again. How was I to know that this would be the

darkest, most terrifying day of my life! (Psycho music)

(Yeah, that’s good.)

I’ll never forget my Mom’s words. They seemed so sweet

and loving. Daaaany, come to the kitchen. I have a surprise

for you.

A surprise? Oh, joy! Cake? Candy? A pony? Not exactly.

She had something a bit more unusual, shall we say, in mind.

(More psycho music).

Mama was standing in front of the kitchen sink with her

favorite, razor-sharp butcher’s knife in her hand. The

mirror-like blade of the knife reflected her face as a

distorted, scrunched up image of a surreal, uh, let’s see,

Lucille Ball. Yeah! That’s it! Kind of like a psychotic,

demented, Lucille Ball.

At the time, I thought nothing of it. Why would I be

suspicious of Mom? Wasn’t she the one who woke up at all

hours to feed me and change my dirty diapers? Didn’t she

clean up my baby puke and bathe me when I rolled in tar?

Sure, sure she did, uh huh, yep, she did all right. So why,

then, did it happen? Why, why didn’t I recognize the signs.

The hoot owl hooting outside my window and the dead

albatross in my sandbox.