Chickens

it was early. chickens were in the street. a detective was at the door, oh my. i crawled to the window one thousand stories old. looking out, i saw specks of tiny color moving this way and that in apparent abandonment. here and ther were forest animals raising hell with a minister from the palace. a wedding was in progress. no plains or mountains couls be seen. a beautiful blond playing i've lost mu pussy entered and just as abruptly left the green-gold pulsating chamber. a blue rat as big as alaska floated by on a raft and i began to disappear.

Connect chickens to writing through their feathers which were once used to make quills.

After you've set your chickens free, you should join up with the garden gnome liberation front.

Another shazam fact to amaze your friends: Some dinosaurs were smaller than chickens.

Chickens drift around with no souls. She says I will not eat chicken, they have souls. Tell that to Tyson.

my aunt said when the world is coming to it's end, she will have tended chickens. And she'll go through the streets screaming »I've got the Chickens!« (of course, she'd have eggs and stuff like that too.)

My friend lives in the basement apartment of two chicken raising lesbians. One of the chickens slowly developed the features of a Rooster. After research and an e-mail to one of the leading Poulty scientists of America, they learned their chicken's gender transgression had been caused by an ovarian cyst.

The chicken in question was consequently dubbed »Chooster,« as an allusion to the animal's non-gender-identifying status.

We decided one night that we do indeed believe in the Pimp Chicken... there he is, up in the sky, stretched out across the universe like fog over the Mississippi, and here we are, milling around like ants at his feet, and we wish upon the stars that are the rhinestones on his jacket, and fruitlessly try to control the destiny he has already predetermined for us in his all-jazz infinite hip-jive.