A Little History

Yesterday I was doing some cleaning up in my saved email archive, and I ran across something that just has to be shared with the internet. It’s the thing that convinced me that Slag had to have a blog to share his stories with the rest of the world. Or at least a small group of other bloggers with excellent taste. You know who you are.

Before we started our blogs, Slag and I used to email our funny stories to a group of friends. Many of my early posts were based on those stories, because I’m lazy like that. I had been thinking about blogging for a while and also mentioning it to Slag whenever he produced something especially amusing, but what follows is what set me into full-blown nagging. That’s right. I’m taking credit for the creation of Alchemy Anyone.

Slag declined to post this on his blog, so I’m doing it here. It must be shared, and I’m allowed to do that because Texas is a community property state.

But first some background. To get the context, you must first read my Ethical Dilemma post. That post was based on an email I had sent to our “funny story” friends.

Did you read it? I hope you did, because otherwise, the rest won’t make any sense.

This was Slag’s response:

I had a spiritual talk with the bird this morning. I let him know that I totally understood his dilemma, i.e. no chirpee, no feather burger. But, surely he must know that chirping for any reason between roost and daybreak is a total waste of resources considering that all the animals in the animal kingdom that give a sh*t one way or another are UNCONSCIOUS!

So I've been waiting for this law of nature to finally sink in to his little bird brain, but I know from previous experience that there's no reasoning with a retard. I've tried making his life unpleasant by chunking dirt clods and shaking his tree. But, the motherf*cker gets all up in my grill with his flapping and squawking and I'm going “HEY D*CKHOLE, GET THE F#CK OUT OF MY TREE,” and he's giving me the middle feather and making me look like his bitch in front of his homebirds.

So I whip it out and shake it at him and I'm telling him, “Yeah motherf*cker, this is what your little hens are looking for, you pencil-dick rooster wannabe.” I tell him, “Uh huh, that's why you are up all night squawking like an egg laying yardbird. You're trying to make up for your little smoky by playing the *sshole.”

So he's all cocky and he tells me, “Yeah, your lady likes my little smoky fried up hot with her scrambled eggs every morning.”

I tell him, “Come on motherf*cker.”

So, the *sshole pulls a beak on me and I'm ok with that. I strap on the shank spurs from my chicken fighting days and I say, "Let the games begin, dude!"

He comes at me full-on with some kind of rookie wingflap-beak-to-the-eye move and BAM! Down he goes. He's on the ground looking around to see if the hens were watching. Yeah, they saw it all. They are all looking at me like "Yeah baby, you're my daddy now," and he knows it's all over.

Adios amigo. It's just like I said, it's my damn tree.



And then the next day, a follow-up arrives, in response to a question about the first story:

Unfortunately, I don't have time to answer that question. I am packing at the moment and I will be leaving xxx Cove for a while. Mr. Hotnuts bird brain came back this afternoon with a couple of his friends. I thought I could take them, and I was doing OK until the grackle caught me with a kidney punch, and I really don't know what happened after that except I've apparently lost the right to mate with Jill.

Everything is all right though. I found a nice hackberry tree in the projects at the end of xxxx Road that doesn't seem be within the territorial boundaries of the any of the birds in the neighborhood. I count myself lucky considering it is really close to a family thatnever puts the lid on their garbage can.

Jill, be brave and try not to antagonize your new alpha male. As soon as I heal up, I'll start expanding my territory, tree by tree, until xxxx Cove is restored once again to my dominion. That cannot happen soon enough considering the hens in this area are alittle feather worn, if you know what I mean.

And the rest is history.