I never wanted to known as that kid who fucked a chicken, but I suppose I don't have a choice.
The label wasn't even accurate. It was really dry-humping at best – how the hell am I supposed to find all the correct hardware (software?) on a squirming, squawking ball of feathers and claws? You hear about it all the time, but it never really sinks in until you try; Chickens do not want to be humped by children.
It wasn't really anybody's fault, so much as a truth or dare game that just spun out of control. You know how that goes. “Hey, wouldn't it be funny if somebody called Susan Tumorwitz and made fun of her chemo? I dare you to do it!”. “You know what would be even funnier…?”
If you lived in the part of Morgantown that I do, eventually a farm animal is going to get sexually assualted. And so it fell on me to be the one that made the game interesting. I want to say that I wasn't willing, but to say that would be to downplay how seriously I take ToD. I was the neighborhood champion for three years, and if it wasn't for a little known subsection of Megan's Law, it could have been 4.
I miss Uncle Joe. I was always his favorite niece, and whenever I would see him he would always have candy in his pockets for me to reach in and get. I always wondered how he got the money for the candy, because I'm pretty sure he was poor.
His pockets always had holes.