Chicken Scratch

Pluck my feathers and call me bouillabaisse – it’s March!!

Buk-AAAAWK!!!!

Yeah, it’s March, and I already hate me some cluckin’ ducks. Anaheim Ducks, to be exact… Their pluckin’ goalie gets my giblets – what kinda name is Giguere anyways…

Hey, ice is kinda cold to lay on, even miniature ice. Don’t I look like a giant on this here little rink?? Chickenzilla!! Rarrrr!!

Buk-AAAAWK!!!!

So, today I’m lyin’ here on this scale-model sheet of hockey ice, because I happened to find it in the basement of the house. I wish I could tell ya that I got a funny recollection from my days of peewee hockey, but I don’t.

Although, I was kinda the Tie Domi of the chicken circuit, back in my day. I was the meanest son-of-a-crowin’-rooster the opposing team ever had the misfortune to run into.

Buk-AAAAWK!!!!

I got in my share of fights, even in the juniors – where it was frowned upon. I didn’t care – every little jersey I could pull over the head of some other loser was a feather in my cap. Helmet. Crown…

Which gave me plenty of time to relax in the penalty box. I rode the pine there for most games, but it beat he hell out of having to race down the ice to try to score. How are ya supposed ta keep your cigarette lit, skating like a pluckin’ missile down the ice? I like my pace leisurely – they don’t even pay ya in beginner hockey!! Cluck that!!

Buk-AAAAK!!!!

Well, before my pinfeathers freeze permanent here, I better scatter. I’m datin’ the Watusi triplets tonight, and I’m visitin’ the spa, to get my comb waxed. Hasta cluck vista, baby!!

Cluck for now!!