I was eating my chips and vinegar when a boy of, oh, about six years old, whirling his little chicken legs as fast as they could whirl, came running past me. I tell ya, he was a happy little fella; he cackled and clucked away like a chicken. If I was stoned that day, maybe I’d be telling you that he was a chicken.
Then I cracked open my Bundy. Ginger beer of course, not rum, it was still only 2 after all. The rum starts at 5.
Then this big fat woman came along. I could hear her puffing and gafuffing from a way’s away; she was no chicken, that’s for sure. And I tell ya, she was not happy Jan, not happy at all. She called out to the chicken boy,
“Come back Johnny, come back!”
He didn’t look like a Johnny to me, he looked more like a Scotty. Johnny’s are two-shoes, and this chicken didn’t look very goody goody to me.
The big fat woman heaved and hurled herself to where little Scotty had stopped, and she was mad. She was all red and aghast in the face, while he was bursting happy and joyin’ the face. It was pretty funny to look at. I wondered as I chugged my ginger what she was so freakin’ freaked out about, so I watched them like a sticky beak as they walked back past me. I wonder if chickens ever actually get sticky beaks?
When they walked past I kinda worked out why the fat wheezing oompa-loompa was so freakin’ freaked out, and it wasn’t because she was afraid of little Scotty-Chicken-Johnny-Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy-Boy running away. It was because he was only about six, and she knew that she’d lost him already.
Anyway, those chips were pretty freakin’ freaky choice. You outa’ get some from there; just two bucks for the chips and a buck fifty for the Bundy.