Easter Chicken

Oh Jesus.. I uh.. Wow,

I feel like such a horrible shit right now. Let me explain.

We were invited to an Easter Egg Hunt and BBQ at a friend’s nearby estate, and we had an absolutely fantastic day of it. The Destroyer went feral and was trying to rip the heads off of kids twice his age on the inflatable assault course, who then took turns throwing him like a lawn dart down the slide part of it when he started to get a bit too bitey.

His heavily pregnant mother also decided that she too had to clamber through the children’s inflatable, despite being 30 weeks gone and looking like an enraged melon smuggler as she threw herself down the slide and cannonballed into a group of unsuspecting children, sending them flying in all directions like bowling pins twatted by an over-enthusiastic bowler.

If that wasn’t enough to have us banned from any future gatherings of respectable adults, I then went ahead and pretty much sealed the deal on our black-listing and donned my much-prized chicken suit.

A suit that has been subjected to many a drunken night out before I settled down into family life and resigned to the guts of a bin bag in the darkest depths of my loft, where it has remained unloved and festering until called upon for an Easter Gathering.
I dug the suit out, gave it a quick airing by putting it on and climbing over the neighbour’s fence, then banged on his kitchen window while he was settling down to enjoy a nice dinner after a hard day’s work. I’m pretty sure he inhaled at least two meatballs as he somersaulted across the kitchen in terror.
After a quick run around the block back to my own house, (waving manically at cars passing on the main road as I did), it was tucked away until it was to be used the following day at the wonderful easter gathering.

We gathered in the beautiful grounds of the estate the next morning, hunted all the eggs our fat little arms could carry, then settled down to a few cold beers while The Destroyer went about putting older kids in figure-four leg locks whilst lashing sweat over every inch of inflated neon vinyl he could find.

The adults settled back on the grass nearby, enjoying the sunshine whilst pouring beer and chilli down our necks as we relaxed to try and tan our pasty white skin, before the calm was broken by a few words from a parent sitting close by;

“You know what would be hilarious? If someone put that chicken suit on and crashed their way through that bouncy assault course.”

Now, in my defense, I had already partaken in a few small libations before this comment had been thrown out into the nether, which makes me far more susceptible to challenge.
It’s why I never became one of those military snipers who can lay undetected under a gorse bush for 14 hours before planting a large caliber round into the curvaceous rump of a corrupt dictator. The minute someone joking said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if someone shot the nipples off that oversized statue of the nation’s president?”, we’d be discovered by the enemy seconds later as I remove the second nip from the 80ft tall caricature of Saddam Hussein.
Seconds later I was fully clad head to toe in sweaty chicken goodness before launching my shoes off and diving head first at full speed into the ‘BAC’. Once I’d navigated my way through the inflatable barriers I decided to dive headfirst through the 3-foot wide circular opening before into the section. However, I should perhaps have stopped to consider if the landing zone on the other side was clear first, as this 6’3” stale and slightly pungent rooster suddenly ended up beak to nose with a now screaming in terror 2 year old who had been chilling out in the middle of the inflatable picking out their nose goblins.

  I ripped the chicken head off immediately to try and show the poor wee bairn that I was a real person, but it turns out that a sweaty bald man suddenly appearing from inside a chicken is infinitely more terrifying, and the poor kid went into nuclear meltdown.
I climbed out of the inflatable straight away and made my apologies as the wee toot’s dad climbed in to soothe his lovely wee girl, and I skulked away into a dark corner to pull the suit completely off and perhaps try and melt myself into the nearby brickwork in shame.

So I’ve learned at least a few lessons from this encounter;

1: Despite having hips like Shakira, I’m hardly ‘Poultry in Motion’ when it comes to navigating my way through a child’s inflatable.
2: As a chicken, I only crossed the inflatable road as I wanted to get to the other slide..
3: I sweated a lot, I think I need to work on my ‘Hen-durance’.
4: If I ever get invited to another Easter Egg ‘Peck-nic’, I’ll maybe leave before I get too boozy.. Perhaps around half past hen.
5: All this ‘Fowl Play’ certainly needs no ‘Egg-splanation’, but talk is ‘Cheep’ and I didn’t want to be seen as ‘Attila the Hen’ by everyone who was there, so thought I should confess all through the medium of Blogging.. That’s a responsible adult thing to do, isn’t it?

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