We got chickens this spring, and I built them a coop out of wood scavenged from construction sites, and star-headed screws that really do work better than the phillips head ones, just like the guy at the lumber store said. They worked so well, I was like, “Becca, you’re really good at screwing.” But I guess it really depends on the screw.
Oh, that was bad.
Anyways, the thing is, chickens sort of make me think of sex. Not because I think they are sexy. Don’t worry. It’s some childhood association, formed by asking about where chicken eggs came from right around when I started thinking about babies getting made, or maybe from looking at old men’s crotches at hot springs and then looking at turkey gobbles. I don’t know.
But when I was finishing the chicken run, which is a nice word for chicken cage, I got thinking about how anything we do to thwart nature is almost always really ugly, or has some nasty side effect. Like to keep raccoons from eating chickens, we put those happy, strutting birds in mucky cages. Or to keep makin’ babies from making babies, we ingest enough estrogen to emasculate frogs and stick plastic crosses up our uteruses.
See how short a time it takes to get from chicken to sex? That’s all I have to say about that.