I know very few people who are as fascinated with the English language as I am (although the few of you I do know are probably reading this right now).
The idiomatic and inconsistent idiosyncrasies that make English so difficult for some to learn are also what make it so beautiful to read and to write.
Take collective nouns, for instance. For the vocabulary-challenged and the non-grammarians, a collective noun is a word used to describe a group of objects, whether it be a group of animals, people, inanimate objects, or even concepts. You'll know them when you see them – some are quite common.
For example: How often have you accused your children of storming through the house "like a herd of buffalo"? You know that fish travel in schools, bees come in swarms, and that dogs and their cousins, the wolves, travel in packs. But you may not know some of the more obscure collective nouns which have come into common – and sometimes rare – use over the many years that the English language has been developing.
When you see some of these, you'll swear that the originators of the terms were endowed with an overactive imagination, or blessed with an abundance of free time, or simply under the influence of very powerful narcotics. But these are all real, and they're all quite weird. Enjoy!
1) At The Water's Edge. While traversing the shores of a stream, river, or even the ocean, you might at any time happen upon a congregation of alligators, a bask of crocodiles, a stand of flamingos, a bloat of hippopotamuses, a mess of iguanas, a fling of sandpipers, an escargatoire of snails, a gulp of cormorants, a knot of toads, or a pod of walruses.
2) In The Water. If you feel like swimming in this particular body of water, whether it's the stream, river, or ocean, you might be lucky enough to encounter a shoal of barbels, a bed of eels, a fluther of jellyfish, a bale of turtles, a hover of trout, or a gam of whales.
3) In The Jungle. If you tire of swimming and want to take a walk on the wild side, perhaps you might fancy a stroll through the jungle. You just may meet up with a shrewdness of apes, a flange of baboons, a destruction of wildcats, a band of gorillas, a leap of leopards, a pandemonium of parrots, a crash of rhinoceroses, an ambush of tigers, a cohort of zebras, or – my personal favorite, for obvious reasons – a cackle of hyenas (or hyena, or hyenae, or hyenæ).
4) On The Plains. If the jungle's not your thing, maybe you'd like to saunter along on the plains, or perhaps the prairie. In so doing, you might perchance catch a glimpse of a gang of elk, a muster of peacocks, an array of hedgehogs, a busyness of ferrets, a mob of kangaroos, a company of moles, or even a blush of boys (that one confuses me).
5) In The Forest. OK, so you're tired of open land and want to get back under a canopy of trees. While walking in the woods, you never know what you might see. Perhaps a cloud of bats if there's a cave nearby, or an army of caterpillars, a parcel of hogs, a descent of woodpeckers, a parliament of owls, a leash of foxes, a bouquet of pheasants, a covey of grouse, a gaze of raccoons, a rafter of turkeys, or – if it's a particularly warm night and your body is full of tasty blood – a scourge of mosquitoes.
6) In The Air. Alas, if you've had your fill of the shore, the water, the jungle, the plains, and the forest, and you feel inclined to take to the sky – assuming you have functional wings, which is assuming a lot – you might be lucky enough to fly alongside a bellowing of bullfinches, a murder of crows, a convocation of eagles, a watch of nightingales, a building of rooks, or – another personal favorite – an unkindness of ravens.
Well, that's about enough of these for now. One was probably enough, but fifty or so collective nouns – well, that's a flurry. Which is the collective noun for a group of words. Of which there are too many here. I'm done. Really, I am. Done.
WAR AND PEACE UPDATE: I'm on Chapter 10 of Book 1 (of 16), which equates to roughly 3% of the book. Slowly but surely, I'll get there one of these days.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Flash Fiction: "Creak" – An Original Short Story
And now for something completely different...A story I just wrote, inspired by one of my biggest fears, but otherwise entirely fictional. If you're easily frightened, please be aware that this just may do the trick for you. But don't let that stop you from reading it. Just maybe don't read it by yourself, or in the dark, or even at night. Regarding the story's ending, don't hate me for being vague – just use your imagination. That's what stories are made for anyway.
The sound – whatever it was – awakened me instantly. Which is saying something, since I sleep deeply and wake slowly.
I couldn't tell exactly where it originated, except that it was not in this room. Downstairs? The kitchen? It could have been a rattling pan. But who rattled it? Are the cats playing around in the sink again? I knew I should have rinsed off those plates before going to bed.
Listen. Wait. Maybe it will happen again. And it does.
What is that?
Not a pan. Most definitely not a pan. But something metallic. The tea kettle? The salad tongs? A carving knife?
A carving knife. I don't know how I know, but I know what's made that sound. Something – someone – has lifted a carving knife from out of the stainless-steel sink, scraping it ever so softly against the side, and set it back down again.
Set it down? But why?
And there it is again. Now they've picked it up again. This is not good.
"They" – really? – "they"? Who exactly do I think is down there? An intruder? A psychopathic killer? Really, my imagination is kicking into overdrive again.
Because it's probably just the cats doing something stupid. Come to think of it, I didn't rinse the carving knife either. It still has the smell – and obviously the taste – of chicken on its blade. That's what it is. The cats are licking the knife and it's jostling around in the sink.
But that doesn't explain what I heard last night.
It wasn't so loud last night. But the noise was similar. No, it was the same. Never mind that I hadn't used the carving knife last night, or that it wasn't even in the sink at the time. Was it? I can't be sure.
My mind is awake, alert, aware. But my body is slow to follow.
I get out of bed, creep over to the chair, and slip on my t-shirt. Trying to avoid all the places in the floor that creak with the slightest movement, I stoop down and reach under the bed. The bayonet is right where I left it.
What kind of idiot keeps a Spanish-American War-era bayonet (no rifle, mind you – just the bayonet) under their bed for protection?
Don't ask. It's sharp, and it works. At least it would if I ever needed to use it. Which I may right now.
Don't even think like that! It's nothing, it's the cats being stupid. I'm sure it is.
A creak below. The first floor of my house is all tile and linoleum. There's nothing to creak. So what was it?
The stairs creak. It's an old house. Everything creaks. Not tile, not linoleum. But the stairs do creak, every bit as much as the floors up here do.
Someone is on the stairs.
This cannot be happening. These are the kinds of things that good fiction – or at least passably good fiction – are made of. This doesn't happen in real life.
It would be too risky to invade a home that's occupied. Wouldn't it?
I haven't made any enemies – at least none that I know of. So it can't be personal. This doesn't make sense. Why is there someone on my stairs? There can't be!
But there is. A second creak confirms my worst fear. Someone is on the stairs, and they're coming for me.
Slowly, so as not to make a sound, I slide the razor-sharp bayonet from its metal sheath. The light from the moon coming through in a sliver from the window reveals a faint glimmer at the bayonet's tip.
I set the sheath down, and brandish the bayonet, as though I actually know what I'm doing. I don't.
I've watched a lot of crime shows on television, and horror movies, but nothing in the realm of the unreal has prepared me for this reality.
Another creak. Ten stair steps below, my fate approaches. I am not ready for this. But I can do nothing to stop it.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. But then, how was it supposed to be? No one ever said that life is fair, or happy endings are inevitable.
The creaks are coming faster now. I must have betrayed my presence somehow, and they – whoever they, or he, or she is – they know I am awake, and that I am waiting for them. And while this gives me pause, it gives them confidence.
The door knob turns slowly, and the door opens inward. Even in the dim light, the face that stares back at me from the doorway is clearly seen.
And I know. This is a fight I cannot win. I acknowledge this fact as the bayonet slips from my hand and hits the floor with a thud. And I brace myself for what I already know is coming.
The sound – whatever it was – awakened me instantly. Which is saying something, since I sleep deeply and wake slowly.
I couldn't tell exactly where it originated, except that it was not in this room. Downstairs? The kitchen? It could have been a rattling pan. But who rattled it? Are the cats playing around in the sink again? I knew I should have rinsed off those plates before going to bed.
Listen. Wait. Maybe it will happen again. And it does.
What is that?
Not a pan. Most definitely not a pan. But something metallic. The tea kettle? The salad tongs? A carving knife?
A carving knife. I don't know how I know, but I know what's made that sound. Something – someone – has lifted a carving knife from out of the stainless-steel sink, scraping it ever so softly against the side, and set it back down again.
Set it down? But why?
And there it is again. Now they've picked it up again. This is not good.
"They" – really? – "they"? Who exactly do I think is down there? An intruder? A psychopathic killer? Really, my imagination is kicking into overdrive again.
Because it's probably just the cats doing something stupid. Come to think of it, I didn't rinse the carving knife either. It still has the smell – and obviously the taste – of chicken on its blade. That's what it is. The cats are licking the knife and it's jostling around in the sink.
But that doesn't explain what I heard last night.
It wasn't so loud last night. But the noise was similar. No, it was the same. Never mind that I hadn't used the carving knife last night, or that it wasn't even in the sink at the time. Was it? I can't be sure.
My mind is awake, alert, aware. But my body is slow to follow.
I get out of bed, creep over to the chair, and slip on my t-shirt. Trying to avoid all the places in the floor that creak with the slightest movement, I stoop down and reach under the bed. The bayonet is right where I left it.
What kind of idiot keeps a Spanish-American War-era bayonet (no rifle, mind you – just the bayonet) under their bed for protection?
Don't ask. It's sharp, and it works. At least it would if I ever needed to use it. Which I may right now.
Don't even think like that! It's nothing, it's the cats being stupid. I'm sure it is.
A creak below. The first floor of my house is all tile and linoleum. There's nothing to creak. So what was it?
The stairs creak. It's an old house. Everything creaks. Not tile, not linoleum. But the stairs do creak, every bit as much as the floors up here do.
Someone is on the stairs.
This cannot be happening. These are the kinds of things that good fiction – or at least passably good fiction – are made of. This doesn't happen in real life.
It would be too risky to invade a home that's occupied. Wouldn't it?
I haven't made any enemies – at least none that I know of. So it can't be personal. This doesn't make sense. Why is there someone on my stairs? There can't be!
But there is. A second creak confirms my worst fear. Someone is on the stairs, and they're coming for me.
Slowly, so as not to make a sound, I slide the razor-sharp bayonet from its metal sheath. The light from the moon coming through in a sliver from the window reveals a faint glimmer at the bayonet's tip.
I set the sheath down, and brandish the bayonet, as though I actually know what I'm doing. I don't.
I've watched a lot of crime shows on television, and horror movies, but nothing in the realm of the unreal has prepared me for this reality.
Another creak. Ten stair steps below, my fate approaches. I am not ready for this. But I can do nothing to stop it.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. But then, how was it supposed to be? No one ever said that life is fair, or happy endings are inevitable.
The creaks are coming faster now. I must have betrayed my presence somehow, and they – whoever they, or he, or she is – they know I am awake, and that I am waiting for them. And while this gives me pause, it gives them confidence.
The door knob turns slowly, and the door opens inward. Even in the dim light, the face that stares back at me from the doorway is clearly seen.
And I know. This is a fight I cannot win. I acknowledge this fact as the bayonet slips from my hand and hits the floor with a thud. And I brace myself for what I already know is coming.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
War And Peace, Water Leaks, And Wonderful Eats
It's a weird life sometimes. I don't know how to qualify that statement. It just is, that's all.
I started reading War And Peace last night at the gym (yes, we've started working out again – New Year's resolutions and all that jazz), fully expecting to drudge my way through it much like I did 20 years ago when I tried to read it then. So far, I have been pleasantly surprised. Maybe I'm smarter now than I was then (let's hope so!), maybe I've read enough works of literature in the ensuing years that I simply "get it" more, or maybe I'm simply reading a better translation on the Kindle. I just know that 1,000+ locations (out of 29,827), or 3%, into it, I'm actually enjoying it.
I spent my lunch break listening to two plumbers talk shop and pretended to understand them. Then found out that our really expensive plumbing problem – a leak somewhere between the shutoff valve and the water meter – may end up being a little more expensive – but will likely be a better, more permanent fix. So, bad news and good news all in one on that front.
Monday, January 9, 2012
You're Really Gonna Read THAT?
So, my wife and I were discussing my completely indiscriminate reading habits yesterday, and that, coupled with the memory of having watched Happy New Year, Charlie Brown a week or so ago, caused an inkling of a thought to spring from my scattered mind.
Hmm...there's a lot in that first paragraph, so maybe I should break it down a little.
First, my indiscriminate reading habits. Put simply, I will read anything. While I tend to enjoy things like horror, true crime, and mysteries more than other genres, I have also been known to read history books, literary fiction, children's books, teen fiction, Christian living books, Westerns, comic strip collections, books about donkeys – you name it! And, surprisingly enough, I enjoy almost all of them. Every now and then, I will start reading something that I simply can't get into, and will ultimately abandon without finishing it. But that's rare.
Secondly, the Happy New Year, Charlie Brown special that I watched. The plot is basically that Charlie Brown has been assigned the monumental task of reading War And Peace, a 1,000-plus page mega-novel, over the Christmas holidays and must give a book report on it upon returning to school. Charlie Brown, not unlike myself, is a slow reader, and he struggles with this densely written tome (a great word to describe massive novels like this one, by the way). Charlie sees his friends enjoying their Christmas break, attending a New Year's Eve party, and etc. while he sits on the sidelines reading his book.
[Aside: I've never figured out why Charlie Brown is the only one of all his friends – several of whom attend the same school he does – who has to read this book over the holidays. Maybe the clarinet-speaking teacher just hates Charlie Brown. Or maybe they've all been assigned the book, and none of them cares enough to actually complete the assignment (being the husband of a teacher myself, I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case). Or maybe the others all read the Cliff's Notes version and have already prepared their book reports. But I digress...]
Anyway, putting two and two together has got me thinking that maybe I should attempt – again – to read War And Peace myself. Why? Here are a few reasons (Disclaimer: I didn't say they were good reasons):
1) To be able to say that I read it. Sort of an avid reader's Purple Heart, if you will.
2) To finish what I started over 20 years ago. I first attempted to read this behemoth of a book when I was 12 years old. I got about 100 pages into it and gave up. I didn't half understand it anyway, and I had better things to do. Hey, I was 12! (Incidentally, this wasn't the only stupid monumental task I attempted during that time period. I also tried to read the dictionary from cover to cover, but I only got through the B's. I won't be restarting that one!)
3) I've always wanted to read something by Tolstoy. Yes, I am quite aware that Tolstoy wrote other, much shorter works, including a few novellas. There are lots easier Tolstoy works that I could start with that wouldn't cause me as much grief as this one is likely to, but...
4) I like a challenge. 'Nuff said.
So, here are the ground rules, and I'm telling you, so I can hold myself accountable. I can read the book from a physical copy (which I'll have to go out and buy, or rent from the library), or on the computer, or on my Kindle (public domain books are free – wahoo!), but I can't cheat and listen to the audiobook version of it. Not only will it be harder to quantify my page count (which I intend to update here as often as I read it), but it will also go much too quickly to be considered a real challenge.
Can I do it? I have no idea. But I'm game to try it.
Hey, I'll read anything, right? Here goes nothing!
Hmm...there's a lot in that first paragraph, so maybe I should break it down a little.
First, my indiscriminate reading habits. Put simply, I will read anything. While I tend to enjoy things like horror, true crime, and mysteries more than other genres, I have also been known to read history books, literary fiction, children's books, teen fiction, Christian living books, Westerns, comic strip collections, books about donkeys – you name it! And, surprisingly enough, I enjoy almost all of them. Every now and then, I will start reading something that I simply can't get into, and will ultimately abandon without finishing it. But that's rare.
Secondly, the Happy New Year, Charlie Brown special that I watched. The plot is basically that Charlie Brown has been assigned the monumental task of reading War And Peace, a 1,000-plus page mega-novel, over the Christmas holidays and must give a book report on it upon returning to school. Charlie Brown, not unlike myself, is a slow reader, and he struggles with this densely written tome (a great word to describe massive novels like this one, by the way). Charlie sees his friends enjoying their Christmas break, attending a New Year's Eve party, and etc. while he sits on the sidelines reading his book.
[Aside: I've never figured out why Charlie Brown is the only one of all his friends – several of whom attend the same school he does – who has to read this book over the holidays. Maybe the clarinet-speaking teacher just hates Charlie Brown. Or maybe they've all been assigned the book, and none of them cares enough to actually complete the assignment (being the husband of a teacher myself, I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case). Or maybe the others all read the Cliff's Notes version and have already prepared their book reports. But I digress...]
Anyway, putting two and two together has got me thinking that maybe I should attempt – again – to read War And Peace myself. Why? Here are a few reasons (Disclaimer: I didn't say they were good reasons):
1) To be able to say that I read it. Sort of an avid reader's Purple Heart, if you will.
2) To finish what I started over 20 years ago. I first attempted to read this behemoth of a book when I was 12 years old. I got about 100 pages into it and gave up. I didn't half understand it anyway, and I had better things to do. Hey, I was 12! (Incidentally, this wasn't the only stupid monumental task I attempted during that time period. I also tried to read the dictionary from cover to cover, but I only got through the B's. I won't be restarting that one!)
3) I've always wanted to read something by Tolstoy. Yes, I am quite aware that Tolstoy wrote other, much shorter works, including a few novellas. There are lots easier Tolstoy works that I could start with that wouldn't cause me as much grief as this one is likely to, but...
4) I like a challenge. 'Nuff said.
So, here are the ground rules, and I'm telling you, so I can hold myself accountable. I can read the book from a physical copy (which I'll have to go out and buy, or rent from the library), or on the computer, or on my Kindle (public domain books are free – wahoo!), but I can't cheat and listen to the audiobook version of it. Not only will it be harder to quantify my page count (which I intend to update here as often as I read it), but it will also go much too quickly to be considered a real challenge.
Can I do it? I have no idea. But I'm game to try it.
Hey, I'll read anything, right? Here goes nothing!
Sunday, January 8, 2012
When Writing Becomes Exercise
I'm finding this blog-post-a-day-for-a-whole-year thing to be a real challenge. Especially on the weekends.
You'd think I'd have more time to think of things to write about, and actually write even more on the weekends. But so far they've been the hardest.
Maybe I'm just more inspired to write about things that interest me when I'm supposed to be writing about shirts and pants and jackets and hats (i.e. things that don't really interest me) when I'm at work.
Maybe I just need to plan ahead a little.
Either way, there has been and will be very little of substance to this post, and for that I apologize.
Oh well...there's always tomorrow.
You'd think I'd have more time to think of things to write about, and actually write even more on the weekends. But so far they've been the hardest.
Maybe I'm just more inspired to write about things that interest me when I'm supposed to be writing about shirts and pants and jackets and hats (i.e. things that don't really interest me) when I'm at work.
Maybe I just need to plan ahead a little.
Either way, there has been and will be very little of substance to this post, and for that I apologize.
Oh well...there's always tomorrow.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Fixing What's Broken
The past few days of this New Year have been less than happy. At the very least, they haven't borne the best of news for us.
This past Wednesday, we found out we have a major leak somewhere beneath either our patio or our living room, either of which will have to be dug up in the coming days to fix the problem. Insurance will pay for a portion of the cost to repair it, but not nearly enough after they've taken their huge cut of the check so we meet our deductible.
So, needless to say, we're about to be a lot lighter in the wallet. Yeah, didn't really need that.
The skylight in our finished third floor bonus room has been leaking pretty good for months, and it's the homeowners' association's responsibility to take care of that for us. We told them about it in May. They finally fixed it yesterday. We think. The repair was done while we were at work, and it's honestly pretty difficult to tell – at least from the ground – if the flashing looks any different, i.e. less leaky. I'll follow up next week.
Oh yeah, and our washing machine has been on the fritz for quite some time now. We knew the problem was most likely that the lid switch was worn out. We even bought the parts to fix it a week and a half ago. But with all this other craziness going on, we had neither the time nor the energy to try to deal with that too. So we'd wash our clothes in the broken machine, and whenever it would shut off prematurely, we'd put a kettle bell, or a bucket of litter, or anything else heavy we could find at just the right spot on the lid and bang on it repeatedly till it restarted. And thus the cycle (literally and figuratively) would continue ad nauseam (also literally and figuratively).
Today, we decided that enough (broken stuff) was enough, and we went on the offensive. In other words, we fixed the washing machine ourselves. The smug repairman guy in the YouTube tutorial video we watched (numerous times!) to teach ourselves how to do it said it was "an easy fix". After two hours of fighting with the blasted machine, we were inclined to disagree. The actual part replacement was relatively easy, but getting to it and putting it all back together in the end was positively a nightmare!
But we did it. Together. Did we scream at the machine, at each other, at the madness of it all? Yep, a little. Maybe a lot.
But it's done. And it works again. It's washing our clothes even as I type these words.
So there are still things that are broken. But we have clean clothes. And that's something at least.
This past Wednesday, we found out we have a major leak somewhere beneath either our patio or our living room, either of which will have to be dug up in the coming days to fix the problem. Insurance will pay for a portion of the cost to repair it, but not nearly enough after they've taken their huge cut of the check so we meet our deductible.
So, needless to say, we're about to be a lot lighter in the wallet. Yeah, didn't really need that.
The skylight in our finished third floor bonus room has been leaking pretty good for months, and it's the homeowners' association's responsibility to take care of that for us. We told them about it in May. They finally fixed it yesterday. We think. The repair was done while we were at work, and it's honestly pretty difficult to tell – at least from the ground – if the flashing looks any different, i.e. less leaky. I'll follow up next week.
Oh yeah, and our washing machine has been on the fritz for quite some time now. We knew the problem was most likely that the lid switch was worn out. We even bought the parts to fix it a week and a half ago. But with all this other craziness going on, we had neither the time nor the energy to try to deal with that too. So we'd wash our clothes in the broken machine, and whenever it would shut off prematurely, we'd put a kettle bell, or a bucket of litter, or anything else heavy we could find at just the right spot on the lid and bang on it repeatedly till it restarted. And thus the cycle (literally and figuratively) would continue ad nauseam (also literally and figuratively).
Today, we decided that enough (broken stuff) was enough, and we went on the offensive. In other words, we fixed the washing machine ourselves. The smug repairman guy in the YouTube tutorial video we watched (numerous times!) to teach ourselves how to do it said it was "an easy fix". After two hours of fighting with the blasted machine, we were inclined to disagree. The actual part replacement was relatively easy, but getting to it and putting it all back together in the end was positively a nightmare!
But we did it. Together. Did we scream at the machine, at each other, at the madness of it all? Yep, a little. Maybe a lot.
But it's done. And it works again. It's washing our clothes even as I type these words.
So there are still things that are broken. But we have clean clothes. And that's something at least.
Friday, January 6, 2012
For Some Reason, The Subject Is Chickens...
Okay, so I decided to take a day off from actually writing a blog post to compile a few videos I found on the Internet. Today's topic: CHICKENS. Why? Well, why not?
1) Mike The Headless Chicken:
Okay, this is kinda horrible, but you can't say it's not interesting...
From Wikipedia.org:
"In Fruita, Colorado, on September 10, 1945, farmer Lloyd Olsen was sent out to kill a chicken for dinner. His mother-in-law loved to eat the neck, so Mr. Olsen tried to chop off as little of the neck as possible. With a swing of his axe, off came the head. The chicken – now known as "Mike The Headless Chicken" – started to run around as chickens do, but never stopped.
Mike The Headless Chicken became famous and began doing tours. Mr. Olsen charged 25¢.
Mike was fed a mixture of water and milk with an eyedropper, and occasionally he was fed corn.
Mike finally died in 1947, after living for 18 months. He started choking in the middle of the night, and since the Olsens left the syringes they used to clear his esophagus at the sideshow, they could not save him."
(Source: thelongestlistofthelongeststuffatthelongestdomainnameatlonglast.com)
2) The Great Gonzo And His Chickens Perform "The Blue Danube Waltz":
Now, if this doesn't get into your head for the next few hours, you may have short-term memory loss! And if you don't at least smile once or twice, you might want to get your sense of humor checked the next time you're at the doctor's.
(Source: youtube.com)
3) "Flickin' Chicken" Rubber Chicken-Tossing Game:
I actually had to write a product description for this game a while back, since it's something our company sells online. Believe it or not, it's a real game. And believe it or not, I would never ever play it. (Unless it was given to me as a gift, in which case it would be an insult to refuse.)
(Source: youtube.com)
4) Gene Burnett -- "The Free Range Chicken Song"
So...this may be even weirder and more disturbing than "Mike The Headless Chicken". I would say "Enjoy!", but I don't really think you will. So I'll just say: Here it is...
(Source: youtube.com)
1) Mike The Headless Chicken:
Okay, this is kinda horrible, but you can't say it's not interesting...
From Wikipedia.org:
"In Fruita, Colorado, on September 10, 1945, farmer Lloyd Olsen was sent out to kill a chicken for dinner. His mother-in-law loved to eat the neck, so Mr. Olsen tried to chop off as little of the neck as possible. With a swing of his axe, off came the head. The chicken – now known as "Mike The Headless Chicken" – started to run around as chickens do, but never stopped.
Mike The Headless Chicken became famous and began doing tours. Mr. Olsen charged 25¢.
Mike was fed a mixture of water and milk with an eyedropper, and occasionally he was fed corn.
Mike finally died in 1947, after living for 18 months. He started choking in the middle of the night, and since the Olsens left the syringes they used to clear his esophagus at the sideshow, they could not save him."
(Source: thelongestlistofthelongeststuffatthelongestdomainnameatlonglast.com)
2) The Great Gonzo And His Chickens Perform "The Blue Danube Waltz":
Now, if this doesn't get into your head for the next few hours, you may have short-term memory loss! And if you don't at least smile once or twice, you might want to get your sense of humor checked the next time you're at the doctor's.
(Source: youtube.com)
3) "Flickin' Chicken" Rubber Chicken-Tossing Game:
I actually had to write a product description for this game a while back, since it's something our company sells online. Believe it or not, it's a real game. And believe it or not, I would never ever play it. (Unless it was given to me as a gift, in which case it would be an insult to refuse.)
(Source: youtube.com)
4) Gene Burnett -- "The Free Range Chicken Song"
So...this may be even weirder and more disturbing than "Mike The Headless Chicken". I would say "Enjoy!", but I don't really think you will. So I'll just say: Here it is...
(Source: youtube.com)
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