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!
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