I will beat them all down with my giant flapping capacities, and stun them all.
There is literally world war III going on in our house as we speak; us against the mutant-ostrich-chickens. And god only knows how it may end. They have officially flapped over the acceptable chicken behaviour line: it’s one thing flapping onto the table and stealing your children’s food out of their little mouths with their nasty pecky beaks. It’s a whole other thing, when they are ripping out every last vegetable I and the kids have so painstakingly planted over the past week. In fact, things have got so bad, that tonight I am *power* blogging. No, not some cathartic, healing process I have been advised by my mutant-chicken-ostrich psychologist to do, not some ‘writing about your woes will heal you’ b******s. It’s like writing a blog in a similar way to a fast and furious walk is done would be called. A *power* blog. Not that my message is going to be of an ever-so deep and even more profound nature, as it usually is (!), but because after I have done this, I am then to go and replant ALL my vegetables, for the 12th (no word of a lie) time today. The (my dad’s away for a few days, so I’m fine to write the following word, but sorry to any relatives it may otherwise offend) F*CK*NG chickens are flaps away from having their necks wrung. I have been driven flapping mad (again, you see just how these flap jokes stretch…endless fun), and flaps on my heart (alright, that just doesn’t work, I was trying to replace ‘hand’, but obviously I just look like some weird pervert replacing it as I have, and I am too lazy to delete all the text I have just *power* typed). My point is friends: family, and I include ALL the animal kingdom EXCEPT if you flap. No, that excludes the bird race, and just cos chickens flap, does not mean I have to tar all birds with the same terrorizing tendencies. Now, did you know this? There was a chicken who got his head cut off, and proceeded to run a around a bit, he carried on running around a bit, for 18 months…Mike the chicken he’s called- Google him, it’s a real life story! (I’m into those at the mo!) He died, unfortunately, because his owners took him to a show (he was famous and everything!) and forgot to bring his syringe to feed him his food, and he thus starved to death. Idiot owners. Who’d a thunk it? As my grandpa always used to say.
|EEEEEWWWW rank, but you see, it's Mike the chicken- told you it was true!!|
Who knows how this war will end? I may well wring their bloody necks, I may not, I imagine I won’t, I have never knowingly or deliberately killed anything, but then again, there is always tomorrow.
I am in my bedroom on the computer, I have to kneel in front of it, as we have it on a wooden chest, it takes me ages to prize myself off the floor, my nimbility is fast fleeing me, on a daily basis. I am like a 95-year-old ex horse-riding gymnast. Not that I have ever done either of those sports (actually I did horse ride as a child, so I’m telling half the truth, took me ages to get my head round the tapping the horse with the whip to make it go, pulling reigns to stop it, frequently doing it the wrong way round and speeding off like a rabbit being chased by one of our MENTAL chickens, when I was in fact trying to stop, any way, I digress, giddy up…), but I imagine your body must be pretty ‘worn’ after those sports practiced for a length of time.
Monty’s bedroom is above us, and he sometimes stays up late under his bed, in his den. It’s full of star wars Lego, which he is obsessed with. He sets up all his Lego men Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, Anakin, before he fell to the ‘dark side’ (as I believe my chickens have) Leia R2D2, well, I’m not going to sit here and name the whole cast (although I am only saying that because I have now exhausted my star wars names knowledge), they have battles with all the baddies, and he has all his ships that he and his dad have spent hours making, through tears (daddy’s), sweat and pain, again, all daddy’s. I can hear the faint dialogues between General Grievous and Mace Windou (I had to ask Alex his name!) the girls are convinced he is called Mace Window though. It’s ever so sweet. And I only mention it as I can hear him as I type, bless.
|may the force be with you all this week...|
I have had a load more (yes, the French paper work time is around again) French paper work to trawl through this week, make sense of and provide evidence yet AGAIN of our very existence on the planet. It’s so pointless and time consuming, and there is no *if you have kids, please feel free to take your time in responding, we do not mean to be the cause of more unnecessary stress, and fully comprehend that finding out all the 7000 tiny print documents we are threatening you with severe penalties if not filled out and returned within reception of this letter, as we appreciate that you have probably thrown in the bin or used as papier mache aids* get out clause. Bastards. So you can all wish me luck with that, as I have Mitzi not sleeping due to another ear infection, the second in 3 weeks after she had her grommets put in. it’s all feeling a bit too rubbish at the moment. *keeps it real*
And let’s face it, if I adopt my chickens’ attitude, I will beat them all down with my giant flapping capacities, and stun them all. The only way forward I think…so I end today by saying, here’s to flap attitudes, and conquering the war!