Great Garden Shed Robbery (Crime Doesn’t Pay) at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

Great Garden Shed Robbery (Crime Doesn’t Pay) at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

For those who are not up to speed some of the Fernbrook Resort chickens were overheard loudly clucking about a local garden shed they were planning on heisting. Apparently the shed is where the Ark of the Covenant is rumoured to be resting.

(Why anyone would want to mess with the Ark of the Covenant is beyond me. In Grade 8 history class we learned that the Ark could melt the face of a World War II stone-faced German soldier. And if the Ark can melt the face of a Nazi grunt than it can easily deep fry a chicken.)

Anyway, quite honestly, there does not seem to be much going on here. Yet the plot doesn’t seem to have completely fizzled out either. And though at least one of the leaders of the brood still seems committed to the crime others are wisely distancing themselves from the idea. As a result, membership in the flock has become quite fluid and several members of the group appear to have flown the coop. The concerns appear to be:

- Names

The very best criminal gangs have really cool names, you know, like Liberals or Conservatives or New Democrats. Without a cool name you have to use your own name. And whether its before the crime or after criminals (other than for politicians) absolutely abhor the publication of their identifies. (My suggestion is choose a cool name, like the Bird Brains. A name like that demonstrates your intellectual superiority over us mere mortals.)

- Exit Plan

Smartly, unwilling to use a local road that was in plain view they know they have to carry the garden shed’s priceless treasure over land. But they’re having trouble securing an alternate route through either the adjoining chicken run or over neighboring Disneyland for their mickey mouse operation. (My suggestion is that since you’re chickens – use your wings)

- Timing

The group did decide that their criminal action will take place on a Sunday night/Monday morning or else a Wednesday night/Thursday morning. But are in deep discussions over which date is the most preferable. (My suggestion is that they phone their soon to be victim and set up an appointment. That would take out all the chancy guesswork)


NOW, before continuing, all you kids out there reading this: STAY IN SCHOOL!

CRIME DOES NOT PAY!

Well, that’s not really true, crime does pay… just not well. Unless you’re an international jewel thief – that pays really well. Smugglers do good too. And drug kingpins. Art thieves too. Insurance fraud. Second story jobbers. Embezzlers. Blackmailers. Bribe takers…

And… come to think of it… criminals (other than for legal criminals such as politicians) don’t declare their ill-gotten earnings at tax time. Yeah, that’s right, criminals don’t pay taxes on their income. So even if you don’t earn a lot, if you’re not taxed on that income then you’re probably much better off than a law abiding taxpayer. Criminals all have nice cars. They work good hours. Dress sharp. And criminals get all the cute sassy dames (if local cinema offerings are any indication of criminal dating life).

You know what?

Criminals have it pretty sweet.

Why the heck do we even need book learning? I bet higher education is just some criminal organized scam to get us high paying jobs to make us work fifty hours a week so that we can afford expensive dental plans and so that we can buy stuff we don’t need and then have that stuff stolen from us while we’re at work by some criminal who works five measly hours a week and doesn’t declare his income. I’m not kidding!

Though criminals (other than for politicians) don’t have dental plans.

And I believe (at least according to Law and Order Special Victims Unit) that’s how criminals (other than for politicians) get caught. Cops just show up, shout, “show me your pearly whites”, and if you have snaggle teeth (or worse) well, then that’s it. Jigs up. You’re under arrest. Case closed.

So any heist at Fernbrook Resort would be quite easy for the police to solve. Names or no names.

Why?

Chickens don’t have teeth.

Ghosts and Hauntings Found at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton Ontario

Ghosts and Hauntings Found at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton Ontario

I have been using gravity ever since I was a little kid. And quite honestly it’s great. I love it. So much so that I use it 24 hours a day seven days a week. Quite honestly it’s addictive. Once you start using it you just can’t stop. Though while I am quite familiar with gravity in no way do I consider myself an expert on the phenomena. And I say this even after having read Aristotle, Galileo and Newton. Who some less learned people wrongly attribute the invention of gravity.

Getting to the point, if you’ll remember… the handlebars on a bike were found turned up on three different occasions. And by up I mean that the brake pulls were pointed towards the sky. Nothing has happened since the third incident. Today I decided to try a little experiment.

1) Let’s assume that no one tampered with the handlebars.

This is easy to assume. But remember that I’ve had Fernbrook Resort’s neighborly neighbor’s flinging dog feces about the property and onto the roof of my 120 sq ft trailer palace. I have found questionable placing of hot cigarette butts more than once. And there are several other incidents which I have not yet written about simply because I don’t know how to assess them (i.e. coincidence or the work of chickens). But as a result of repeated unexplained problems you can see how the worst (tampering) might be the conclusion  immediately jumped to by myself.

2) And lets assume that I’m in full possession of all my faculties.

This is not easy to assume. Even by folks who know me well. So if you’re reading these posts without knowing me than, no doubt, you’re all but certain that I am secretly writing this blog on the occasions the Freelton Mental Health Center & Car Wash lets me out of my strait jacket to play with soap bubbles.

And the experiment?

I wish I had thought of this previously but what I did was to painstakingly slowly loosen the bolt on the bike handlebars. To see what would happen. Would they move? They did! When loose enough the handlebars slowly rotate counter clockwise and the brake pulls point toward the earth. Down. Which is the opposite direction to which I had found them in the loosened state. Counterclockwise and up. Nine out of ten scientists have confirmed that ‘down’ is the opposite of ‘up’ (the tenth scientist was a Canadian answering under Stephen Harper’s direction – go figure).      
  .
I completed the experiment six times. And each time the result was the same. The break pulls ended up pointing towards the ground. Though after much study and considerable research I think I have an answer for this weird discrepancy.

Ghosts.

That damn bike is haunted.

I mentioned previously that I was no expert on gravity. This despite having more than a passing familiarity with it. And I stand by that statement. However I am an expert on both ghosts and hauntings. Not only have I studied the award winning Ghostbusters documentary (with the irascible Bill Murray) but I’ve also reviewed the voluminous case studies of one Casper ‘the friendly ghost’ (published monthly by Harvey Periodicals) at length. So I know what I’m talking about. The bike is haunted. It has to be. There is just no other plausible explanation.

Whew, I’m glad that’s solved.

During my studies I also solved another ghostly mystery… Casper the friendly ghost? He’s really the ghost of Richie Rich. Yeah. Richie Rich’s parents probably offed the snot nosed brat for the insurance money. Just put pictures of Casper and Richie side by side. You’ll see.    

Whoa… would you look at that… it’s beautiful… sorry, I’m gonna play with some soap bubbles before the orderlies come and strap me back in.

Human-Chicken War Looming at Fernbrook Resort in Freelton, Ontario??

Human-Chicken War Looming at Fernbrook Resort in Freelton, Ontario??

Well, the olive branch of peace may have been defoliated by one of the chickens at Fernbrook Resort in Freelton, Ontario. If so, war, which wasn’t even on the menu just a scant few days ago, is on the table and ready to be served. Piping hot.

And though I want to be mad, I can’t be.

Because to be upset would mean that the guilty chickens were reading this blog and decided that ‘war’ isn’t over until they cluck that it’s over.

They can’t be that feather-brained.

So they’re not reading this.

Which means Rooster isn’t receiving meds for Narcissistic Personality Disorder. The residents are unaware that their private library is being pilfered. The Noxema Girls at reception don’t know that they’ve been complimented on their beauty. Lapchicken is unaware that he’s being svengalied (technically that’s not a real word but you know what I mean). And so on down the line.  

What happened to bring about the possibility of war?

My mother always said that I was born wearing skates but I prefer to say that I was born riding a bike. Either way that’s a hell of a difficult birth and hats off to Mom’s everywhere for giving birth to kids wearing any sort of sporting equipment. Or just for having kids. Anyway, just about any thing that could wrong with a bike I have experienced. And survived. Broken chains, cracked rims, exploding brakes, I’ve even broken a bike frame in half.

This past week however it was something new.

I get on the bike and immediately I noticed that the handlebar was loose and that the handbrake pulls were pointed up in the air. I grabbed an allan key, repositioned the bars and went on my way. I didn’t think anything of it. One of those things that happens I supposed.

Two days later (the day after the olive branch was proffered) the exact same thing – I walked out into the shed, handlebar loose, brake levers up etc. etc. I just figured that I hadn’t tightened it quite enough. So I re-tightened it and went on my way.

This morning it was the same thing. So I tightened it up once more… and while I was tightening I got to thinking. Why would the brake pulls be pointing up in the air? If the handlebar became loose they should point toward the earth. Shouldn’t they? Because of their weight. For those of you familiar with the eccentricities of gravity and gravitational pull this will make perfect sense to you.

It would be nice to be certain that it was just a accident. But even now I’m not 100% convinced that it's not just a coincidence. My questions then:

Had I done a bad repair job? (Two in fact)
Was the three times loose handlebar just coincidence?
Was some chicken playing an underwinged trick?
Were aliens involved?

I tackled the alien angle first and, using the internet to research and according to enquiring minds, aliens occupy themselves with crop circles, disemboweling cows and random probing of various human orifices. I don’t have cows or crops and I hope you’ll take my word for it when I tell you I haven’t been probed. At least I don’t think I have. I guess they drug you or something. It’s all kind of hazy. Anyway absolutely nothing about handlebar loosening.

Could I have done a bad repair job? Twice. I don’t know but, yeah… it’s possible.

Coincidence? The thing is, coincidences don’t come in threes. That’s why they’re called coincidences. Singular one-time events. So it just couldn’t have been a coincidence. Could it?

Which leaves the idea that perhaps some featherbrained chicken wanted to irritate me but not hurt me. Or, if I did get hurt, they could think, well, if he didn’t see the handlebar was loose by the brake levers pointing up then it was his own fault. And so a salve for their conscience if a couple of eggs err… legs… got broken.

So any data I have on the causation of the loose handlebars is purely empirical at this point. I have nothing hard to base a hard conclusion on.

But if I did?

And the cause of the handlebar loosening did turn out to be fowl related?

I would issue an official Declaration of War on all chickens and chickenkind of Fernbrook Resort. If chickens are tossing lit cigarettes around the property and loosening handlebar bolts on bicycles and… and… well… then it’s time to stop being tolerant. The fuse is lit. And I’m sure that I would have the support of the late Colonel Harland Sanders for this military action. Sanders of course is known to have hated chickens so much that he fried every last one of them – in a style that the Geneva Convention now bans – and known as the horrible Kentucky Fried torture.

But I would not fight like a chicken.

I would not lie, I would not gossip and I would not attempt to damage or to cause personal injury to any chicken, chickenkind or their property. When I indicated previously that being mean ate away at my insides like acid – I meant it. I would lose sleep. And I will not lose sleep over this. So, instead, I would use federal law, municipal bylaws and provincial statutes to extract order. If I’m wrong? There will be no foul. And if I’m right… there will be no fowl.

And for those who get bored reading blogs they can simply tune into CNN for all the latest news and developments. CNN being the Chicken News Network.

Cock-a-doodle-stay tuned.

All Quiet on the Western Front and at Fernbrook Resort in Freelton

All Quiet on the Western Front and at Fernbrook Resort in Freelton

My apologies to Erich Maria Remarque for stealing the title of his wonderful book. But the title is so apt and the book’s true message, anti-war, is so fitting.

Because things are quiet.

The dog feces flinging seems to have stone cold stopped. Though it’s too soon too tell about the cigarette butts. And I haven’t even discussed the kiwi (fruit not the bird), cauliflower, pink chewing gum etc. etc. It’s long list.

But if the flock at Fernbrook are going to behave – then maybe the ‘war’ is over.

Though if it is over that would mean that perhaps someone of Fernbrook Resort had found this blog. And decided that while they liked to fire… they didn’t have the stomach to be fired upon. And have run away. Which seems unlikely. Because the only thing expanding faster than the universe is the Internet. Meaning this tiny blog is unlikely to ever be found. Let alone read. But if this blog has been found... the only person(s) that could connect these writings to the writer would be the dog feces flingers. The cigarette butt tossers. And so on. The bullies. Because I haven’t breathed a word of complaint to even one soul.

Why haven’t I complained?

Today I’m a tubby wide load and very much out of shape. But growing up I was a decent athlete who could score and very often was a captain to boot. As a captain you have to lead by setting a positive example. Or else the team will disintegrate. As an offensive presence (a double entendre for those who might not recognize such) you can’t instigate or retaliate because you can’t score sitting in the bin. You have to tolerate the cheap shots (another double entendre for those who might not recognize such) and know that one of the boys has your back. And, truthfully, I always knew that one of the boys had my back. It’s much easier to be tolerant when you know that a wrong will soon be righted.

So, even today, I am still extremely tolerant of bad behaviour.

I have a long fuse.

Unfortunately when you’re faced with mean people they often mistake the long fuse for someone who has no fuse at all. They think you’re a whipping boy. And so when you finally raise a fist – they get confused.

"HEY, you can’t fight back, you’re a whipping boy. You’re supposed to sit there and take it. I don’t want to fight anymore."

Boo hoo hoo hoo cry me a blog.

Bullies can dose it out only until it forced to taste their own mean medicine – then the self-righteous crying begins.

Meanness is self perpetuating. A perpetual motion machine. When you let it. But what good is perpetual motion that doesn’t accomplish anything? Movement that just keeps you spinning in circles is a waste of time and energy.

An exercise in useless.

I know for some people that being mean is like a dose of cocaine. It gives them an inexpensive high. But a high they constantly need more of. So they get meaner.

For me being mean to someone else is like stabbing myself in the heart. Then carrying a ten thousand pound weight. It’s a heavy load. I have a heavy conscience.

So I just can’t do it.

When faced with mean people (or people I think might be mean) I do my best to avoid them. Be polite. Say as few words as possible. Exit stage left. And take the long way home. ‘X’ them out. I just don’t need pointless drama. If I did I would watch reality television twenty-four seven.

And if any of the Fernbrook chickens, who I believe at least some of to be employees or their close friends, and who fling feces, steal library materials, toss cigarettes etc. etc. were to somehow find this blog?

If this ‘war’ is over, than I forgive you for your mean behaviors.

Though while I forgive your behaviors in no way do I excuse them.

All the same I am quite willing to let bygones be bygones.

And let sleeping dogs lie.

Take the hint.



Please.

Firebugs, House Fires, Smoking Chickens & Pink Lighters at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

Firebugs, House Fires, Smoking Chickens & Pink Lighters at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

Kind of strange… I was outside cleaning up the property, went in the house for a couple of minutes, came back outside and found a smouldering cigarette butt on the lawn.

I didn’t think much of it – just cleaned it up and went back to work.

I went in the house a second time to grab a tool and when I came back outside what did I find? A second smouldering cigarette butt on the lawn.

Was someone watching me? Is someone watching me?

Sounds paranoid I know.

So I forgot about it.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

On several occasions since I’ve found cigarette butts tossed into the carport. Beside a pile of loose wood. And like everyone else around here my carport is also made of wood. It’s a bonfire waiting to happen.

But now that smoking chicken is getting bolder.

A couple days after cleaning some dead brush away and moving it to the edge of the property I found a blackened cigarette butt right beside the brush. Blackened because it had been tossed hot and allowed to burn straight down to the filter.

What would have happened if a light breeze had blown the hot butt into the dead brush? Or if one of the other tossed butts had come into contact with something flammable? If you need someone to answer those questions you’ve the common sense of a chicken, you’re a careless smoker... or both.

Or perhaps you’re not careless.

You’re tossing flaming butts because you have an unspoken axe to grind. But being an overlarge pot-bellied chicken you don’t have the guts required to confront the source of your anger.

So, instead, you toss cigarette butts.

Now I know that with my winning smile and outgoing bubbly personality that there’s no way that anyone could ever possibly dislike me. So… are you mad at my fence? Perhaps my carport dissed you? Or maybe you don’t like some of my trees? I’ll be honest – I had issues with a certain oak tree once (several years back this was) but I sat down and worked it out. Result? Now we’re the best of friends. And today I’m godfather to a batch of strapping young acorns with bright futures in the lumber industry.  

I believe that I can identify the brand of cigarette from the butts (all the same). But I don’t want to name it because if someone from Fernbrook Resort were to accidentally run across this (it’s not that Fernbrook residents can’t read it’s just that with their preoccupation with dog faeces flinging I assume that they don’t have the time to read) and more than one chicken around here sucks on that brand, false accusations might arise were this blog ever to be discovered. And I would never want to see someone falsely accused. Gossip is a horrible thing to do to someone (chickens on the other hand never give a second though as to the effects of their actions or false words).

So here are some points for our smoking chicken to ponder – fire is almost as unpredictable as a female (to be honest both sexes are equally unpredictable but I decided to repeat this negative stereotype of women to inflate my already oversized ego and reinforce my awesome masculinity).

Getting back to fire, what I mean by unpredictable is that once fire is allowed to run free, you don’t know where its going. There are many many trees here. Homes are packed very closely together. The vast majority of which have large exterior propane tanks.

You may get lucky and burn my home down if that is your goal.

But perhaps it will be some other home that gets torched instead.

And whether my home gets it or not, with the closeness of all the homes, the large amounts of fuel (wood) readily available and an explosive accelerant (propane) in close proximity – you could end up taking out half of prestigious Fernwood Resort.

Your home included.

If I lose my trailer mansion – big deal! That’s what insurance is for. Though I sure would hate to lose my collection of Picassos from his Periodo Azul. I would hate to lose my extensive accumulation of Meso-American pottery. But most of all I would hate to lose even one of my many beautiful Carl Faberge eggs (which one day I would like to bequeath to my grandchildren or, having none, to those acorns who I so proudly Godfather). There is not enough money in the world to replace those emotional attachments that you have for the special things in your life.

And where does the pink cigarette lighter fit in?

Well, when that overlarge chicken walked into the carport to deposit his butt (cigarette), he accidentally dropped his flaming pink lighter.

I’ve contacted Fernbrook 5-O and CSI Freelton is examining that very same lighter for featherprints as I write this.

Cock-a-doodle-Butt Out!
 
 

Examining the Bottom of the Piss Pot at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

Examining the Bottom of the Piss Pot at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

Today I’m at the bottom of a different social strata, the ritzy Fernbrook Resort crowd, so I decided to delve into some of the different descriptive terms used that, historically, describe the different layers of society.  If you want to know a bit about me I grew up beneath the very bottom rung of a different society’s social ladder. I was so poor that while other kids were wearing designer clothes I wore a Hefty Cinch Sac. Wearing a trash bag with holes cut out for my arms and legs put me in a lower social stratum then even the kids who wore potato sacks… who of course mocked me. And the only pet I ever had? It was a cardboard box. Of course it was a stray and not one of those expensive store purchased boxes. But I loved it all the same. One day I came home from school and my pet box was missing. I looked and looked but I couldn’t find it anywhere. My parents said it must have run away. Two nights later we had cardboard box for dinner.

Did you know that once upon a time the floors in the homes of the poor were dirt?

And from this came the custom of saying, ‘dirt poor.’

Wealthy folks had rock floors that would get slippery when wet so they spread straw (commonly called thresh) on the floor to secure their footing. To block the thresh from being kicked outside they placed a piece of wood in the doorway.

And so came into the custom of a doorway being referred to as the ‘thresh hold’.

Did you know that they used to use urine to tan animal skins? Poor families used to pee in a communal pot and once full the pot’s contents were sold to a tannery... those who had to do this to survive were called ‘piss poor’.

But worse than that were those who couldn't even afford to buy a pot...they ‘didn't have a pot to piss in’ and were considered lower than piss poor.

Did you know that hundreds of years ago most people got married in June not out of tradition but because May was the month of the year when the warmer weather made bathing more common, cleaning of clothing easier to do… and so on… So by June you smelled pretty good. However, just to be safe, the bride would carry a bouquet of flowers to hide any offensive odors that might still linger.

And so came the custom of carrying a bouquet when getting married.

Did you know that once upon a time when the bath of the home was filled that the man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean hot water, followed by any adult sons, then the women and finally the children. Last of all came the babies. And by then the water was so dirty that you could actually lose the baby in it.

And so came the custom of saying, ‘Don't throw the baby out with the bath water!’

Way back when poor homes were very low to the ground and had thatched roofs which consisted solely of thickly piled straw. Many animals including cats, dogs, mice, bugs etc., found a thatched roof the best place to protect themselves from the elements.

However when it rained the roof became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof.

And so came the custom of saying, ‘It’s raining cats and dogs.’

Because roofs were straw with little or no wood there was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This was a real nuisance, especially in the bedroom where bugs would mess up a clean bed.

And from this came the custom of saying, ‘Night, Night, Sleep Tight, Don’t let the bed bugs bite.

And this is also how and why the origin of the canopy bed, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top, came into being – it helped protect sleepers from falling creepy-crawlies.

Did you know that back in the old days only the richest people regularly ate meat? Poorer people were often vegetarians – not by choice, but by forces of economics. However when the poor did obtain meat it was always a cheap cut from a pig.

And from this came the custom of saying, ‘bringing home the bacon.’

Bringing home meat made the poor feel a little less poor… so they would hang the meat up and show it off to their guests before proudly cutting off a small bit to share.

And from this came the custom of saying, ‘sitting around and chewing the fat’.

Bread was divided according to status, bakery workers got the burnt loaf bottoms, families were sold the middle and the tops of the loaves? They went to the wealthiest of families.

And from this came the custom of referring to the rich as the, ‘upper crust’.

However being rich wasn’t a protection against all of life’s ills. Those with money often had plates of pewter. Unfortunately food high in acid, like tomatoes, leached the acid out of the plate and onto the food. Causing food poisoning. This is why for many centuries tomatoes were considered poisonous. The rich also preferred drinking out of lead cups. Poisonous lead when combined with alcohol could knock out a drinker out of commission for several days – leading people to believe that they were dead.

And from this came the custom of the, ‘dead drunk’.

However death being an uncertain thing families would often lay the imbiber out on a table then sit around the table, eating and drinking, to see if the ‘dead’ might awake.

And from this came the custom of holding, ‘a wake’.

Did you know that in years past that burial plots were often re used – they would dig up the coffin, remove the bones and then re use the grave. Shockingly, better than 1 in 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside. Folks were being buried alive. So came the short-lived custom of tying strings (attached to bells hung outside of the coffin) to the wrist of the deceased. If the bell was heard to ring they would dig up the deceased.

And from the deceased being found alive we received the custom of saying, ‘saved by the bell’.

And while being at the bottom of Fernbrook Resort society may not be the most favorable position there is still one rung lower in life – the ‘dead ringer’. The dead ringer was what the deceased person who was dug up too slowly was called.

Shock, Disappointment and Tears at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

Shock, Disappointment and Tears at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

Well… got a letter in the mail today; it wasn’t regular Canada Post delivery but rather an intra-office letter from the Powers-that-Be at Fernbrook Resort, and the letter’s contents were a shocker.

By the end of the missive I was in tears.

Recall how I mentioned that we were so proud to have our property upgraded from ‘Meth Lab’ to the more prestigious ‘Crack Den’ classification? And that, while nervous, we were aiming for the even more coveted ‘Crack Whore’ status? Well as it turns out, the letter has informed us that our ‘upward reclassification’ was a mistake. We should have been downgraded. No longer are we permitted to proudly refer to our property as a ‘Crack Den’. And neither can we use the lofty term of ‘Meth Lab’. Apparently we’re far worse than either of those. So much worse that they don’t yet have a name or descriptive for our property.

But what on earth could be worse than living in a Meth Lab we wondered?

Well, after some Internet research we came up with some possibilities:

‘Scrap yard’ – we were so impressed with the 1976 Pinto (in the yard since we purchased the home) that we added a Lada and a Yugo. It seemed like a good way to class up the joint but in retrospect the additions may not have gone over well with the neighbors.

‘Federal Government Disaster Relief Program Participant’ – this description fits our property to a ‘tee’. But our government pays $300 for a screw, $1200 for a hammer etc. etc. and I’m afraid that this designation will have the neighbors thinking that we’re freaking millionaires.    

‘Dung Hill’ – with all the feces liberally distributed around the property by well-meaning though misguided ‘neighbors’ this is a definite possibility. But since we’ve worked hard to remove the little brown gifts this hardly seems accurate.

‘Trump Tower’ – have you ever visited? If so then you’ll have to agree that the ‘Dung Hill’ tag isn’t quite as bad as it seems on the surface.

Though perhaps our new reclassification name will be a little more personal – to remind us of our low place in the Fernbrook pecking order.

‘Haircut Tragedy Zone’ – usually I just stick a bowl on my head and snip away. Recently all I could find was the colander (that’s what happens when you reside in a trailer packed with trash)… and a colander is round like a bowl so... I just… I just hope the hair starts growing back soon. I hate being called ‘Patches’ by every snot beaked chicken in the neighborhood. And that goes double for their chicks.

‘Fashion Challenged Troglodyte’ – I couldn’t help myself. The attractive saleslady (another drop dead gorgeous Noxema girl) said that this year everyone would be wearing pink and black plaid pants with a yellow and orange checked argyle sweater.

So what was I to do?

I can down a case of Jack Daniels and a hardened cop would think I had only sipped some iced tea. But give me even a half thimbleful of a woman’s beauty and I’m completely intoxicated. A wreck. A plane crash. And not one of those little two-seater Cessna’s either. I’m a Boeing take down the building type of plane crash. A complete disaster. Without wing, hope or prayer.

Her beauty was so shining that my cognitive faculties were completely impaired.

So I bought the pink and black plaid pants complimented by the yellow and orange checked argyle sweater.

And I still wear them.

Every day.

They may not be attractive but they are durable.

Very durable.

Why couldn’t they have been manufactured in China damn it?

Abnormal Behaviors in Domesticated Fowl by Hamilton Hickman & Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

Abnormal Behaviors in Domesticated Fowl by Hamilton Hickman & Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

You’ll remember that Rhode Island Red and her flock were alleged to have decreed at an awfully loud hen party, “If you’re funny… than you must be gay!” a gathering that the entire park could hear.

Well, folks had a long discussion about the inappropriateness of the comment combined with the loudness of the Cluckfest... and the overt loudness was bothersome as the flock was much noisier than usual.

And distinctly so.

Leading us to ask was the comment “If you’re funny… than you must be gay!” an actual belief of the flock? Or did they have something else in mind. Were they trying to offend someone they thought to be in hearing distance of their loud cackles? A slur perhaps? Maybe they were trying to provoke a response or engineer a specific action from someone they thought could overhear them?

That’s three possibilities.

Now if you discard any belief the flock has in the “If you’re funny… than you must be gay!” salvo. And you recall that Rhode Island Red has a homosexual relation (and so the flock has no overt prejudices) then that leaves only one possibility, that the flock wanted to be overheard (hence the exceptional loudness). They wanted to engender a specific response or action from someone. But if that’s true, who specifically and what specific action the chickens wanted to engineer… well… that can only be guessed at.

Why can that only be guessed at?

Because you can’t talk to chickens. And this is not about the difficulties regarding the translation of a chicken’s mindless clucks to English (or any other language). It’s much more scientific than that. However being unfamiliar with the behaviors of chickens a copy of Hamilton Hickman’s ‘Abnormal Behaviors in Domesticated Fowl’ was obtained (but not from the Fernbrook Resort library – if they ever had a copy some chicken probably borrowed it. Permanently. [See a previous blog entry  http://fernbrookresort.blogspot.ca/2014/07/fernwood-resort-freelton-confirms-that.html for a chicken’s definition of borrow])

Getting back to Abnormal Behaviors in Domesticated Fowl, Hickman notes that the very largest members of the chicken family (who are most often found domesticated and wingless) are one of God’s most unusual creatures and that, while having a spine, unusually, they possess no backbone.

Moreover large or big chickens firmly believe that as long as they’re pretendingly polite to the face – that they can say and do whatever they want (prevaricate, fling dog feces, etc.) when that same face is turned away.

Furthermore, any object of a big chicken’s scorn is not allowed to get upset. Or retaliate. Why? Because (citing the Eastern Mud Hen Inference) they’ve always been polite to your face. And for the rightfully offended to take offense would be offensive… to the big chicken. A double standard for sure. But if you reread your Abnormal Behaviors text you will note that the double standard is a trait common to chickens. As is denial. Confront a big chicken about something stupid that they’ve clucked and they’ll deny they ever said the clucking thing.

Finally Hamilton Hickman teaches us that not all chickens are of the appearance that convention expects (feathers, beaks etc. etc.) and that some chickens can be quite human in appearance, lacking wings and possessing features such as noses, hair and fingers. Hickman doesn’t comment on this but I guess that’s where chicken fingers come from.

Abnormal Behaviors in Domesticated Fowl by Hamilton Hickman is a great way to become acquainted with the various mannerisms of most tamed bird species (but especially chickens) and is a highly recommended research tool. By both veterinarians and psychologists.

Fernbrook Resort findings make it official?? “If you’re funny… than you must be gay!” ???

Fernbrook Resort findings make it official?? “If you’re funny… than you must be gay!???

Well, after a couple of weeks missing in action Rhode Island Red has returned to the nest safe and sound.

Which is good news.

Even better news however is the fact that she’s in clucking finer form than ever before. In fact just the other day she was up at the crack of Noon. Or perhaps it was One. Or two-ish. Or… well, whatever the time, Red held a Cluckfest for a half dozen or so of Fernbrook Resort’s finest hens to celebrate her return. And they were soon clucking so loudly that every neighbor in the park could hear their non-stop gabbling.

And just what were they so loudly ruffling their feathers about?

Homosexuality.

After much discussion the flock is alleged to have come to the conclusion that, get this, that if a person is funny that they’re gay. Unquestionably. On this there can be no debate as it is their official finding. In fact one of the silly cluckers, the Blue Hen of Delaware, was so impressed with the finding that she scuttled back to her coop squawking like a parrot the whole way home, “Cluck, cluck, cluck, if you’re funny, you’re gay, If you’re funny, you’re gay, If you’re funny, you’re gay, cluck, cluck, cluck…”

Now I know what this sounds like… that it's make believe. Nope.. There is just no way that anyone could make up something this vapid. The flock had a long loud drawn out ‘philosophical’ discussion (which for them is any matter that is talked about for more than two minutes) before reaching their official pronouncement.

You know what this means don’t you?

William Shakespeare (playwright of several comedies) gay.
Eddie Murphy (American comedian) gay.
Paul Lynde (center square on Hollywood Squares) gay.
Tina Fey (American comedienne) gay.
Every member of Monty Python (English comedy troupe) gay.

Okay, Paul Lynde actually was a homosexual (not that there’s anything wrong with that). As was Graham Chapman (not that there’s anything wrong with that) of Monty Python fame. But the rest were straight shooters (not that there’s anything wrong with that) according to legend.

My personal pronouncement?

That the thought ‘if you’re funny than you must be gay’ is actually sillier than ‘if you’re beautiful than you must be stupid’ credo that is held by some. Fortunately for me I am neither physically attractive (not that there’s anything wrong with that) or remotely funny (not that there’s anything wrong with that) so no one will ever mistake me for being dumb or gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

And how was this conclusion reached?

Just like beauty and brains are mutually exclusive traits so are humour and preference. Science has confirmed this. And, coincidentally, one of my too many siblings is homosexual. And he is about as funny as twenty-four simultaneous toothaches. He laughs at traffic accident fatalities and enjoys stealing candy from babies. I’m not kidding.

And you know what else is funny? Though only coincidentally so and not ha-ha so… Rhode Island Red has a relative who is homosexual. How could someone who has a homosexual relation make a public statement that is so completely groundless, baseless, tasteless and thoughtless?  

Sigh.

But consider this… if having a sense of humour really does mean that you’re gay, and every time I hear Red’s cluck I break out laughing, by her own definition doesn’t that mean that… I mean I wonder if… what I’m trying to say is… is that I wonder if Red is…

Cock-a-doodle-I don’t really wonder…

…I just put that in there to see if I could make someone laugh (I hope there’s nothing wrong with that).

Meth Labs, Coke Dens and Trailer Trash at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

Meth Labs, Coke Dens and Trailer Trash at Fernbrook Resort, Freelton

Ritzy Fernbrook Resort of Freelton has a long standing classification system for the resident’s homes – and this week the new ratings for each of the resident’s properties was revealed. The ratings are important solely because they determine the social hierarchy for the park (i.e. who’s better than you are and who you can associate with publicly).

I was shocked (and pleasantly so) to learn that I had moved up a notch in the pecking order, going from the very bottom rung or ‘Meth Lab’ as it is known. Yes, I’ve been bumped up one rung to the ‘Coke Den’ rating. To be honest I don’t think that I’ve done enough work on my ‘Coke Den’ to warrant such an honour. However it has rained heavily the past few weeks and I think the heavy shower cleaned some of the dirt off of the classic 1976 Pinto I use as a lawn ornament, showcasing the rust, really adding some colour to the property. Hence the advancement.

I wonder…

…the lawn hasn’t been cut since the Chretien Administration (first term)… perhaps if I gave the lawn a bit if a trim… maybe I could move up one more notch, achieving the much coveted ‘Crack Whore’ designation. Though it’s a name that kind of worries me. I have no problem being associated with crack (as I am told it can be quite refreshing); it’s the whore part of the description that bothers me. To be perfectly blunt, I’ve been saving myself for marriage and I certainly don’t want folks thinking that I’m easy. After all I do have a reputation to think about.

Above the ‘Crack Whore’ designation comes ‘Permanent Reno’, so named because the home is in a state of perpetual teardown. Those who achieve Permanent Reno status have the cache of a messy yard coupled with the bona fide excuse, “Hey, we’re renovating, by summer we’ll have this all cleaned up and I’ll be drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon beside my swimming pool, trust me...”

‘Cat House (2nd rank)’ is one slot higher than ‘Permanent Reno’. There are no actual felines involved here rather the homeowner’s décor is considered to be the equivalent of an upper class Thai brothel. Quite honestly I doubt that I’ll ever be able to attain such a prestigious rank. Why? On my very best dressed days my personal attire is comparable to the wealthiest of homeless people. Yeah, I lack the necessary taste that such a distinguished designation so obviously requires.

‘Cat House (1st rank)’ differs from the second rank in that the first rank must be a home that actually has cats. Dozens of them. Many dozens. As neighbor cats seem to enjoy the amenities that my yard provides I believe that this designation is one that is, ultimately, quite achievable. With no extra effort required on my part. Though quite honestly I think I would prefer to be called a crackwhore.

Next in line is the ‘Almost Millionaires’ clique. These are homes that have lawn chairs in their yards and a big giant inflatable child’s pool (decorated with porpoises and starfish) erected for the sole purpose of soaking their feet while lounging around shirtless and drinking copious amounts of high quality Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. This is a high rank which is quite beyond me for several reasons. I will never be able to afford a pool. I don’t have the hot air necessary to inflate such a quality amenity. And Pabst Blue Ribbon is much too fine a beverage for someone of my modest standing.

The highest rank that a resident of Fernbrook Resort can achieve is that of ‘Trailer Trash’. This is a rank that some neighbors have achieved and, God willing, perhaps a rank I may one day be awarded as well. Isn’t that everyone’s dream? To walk down the street while people point at me and whisper quietly behind hands held over their smiling mouths, “Look son, over there, there goes Trailer Trash…”  

Well, until that day comes, I can always dream.