You are not logged in.

Announcement

Welcome to the the original, the one and only, Spiceislander Talkshop. The site remains Grenadian owned and hosted in the United States.

#1 Nov 20, 2017 6:39 pm

Expat
Active

A tale about a chicken plucker

I have to admit it is not me..... Although I have had my moments culling roosters.



I bought a chicken plucker off of ebay for like $40.


Trying to get a rooster ready for the pot. I think I'll use a pressure cooker, although I don't own one, but would really like to check out one of these stove top microwaves, so I drove 50 miles to the nearest getting place.


I went in to buy the pressure cooker, and to my surprise, I was forced to go through a background check.


They checked with TSA, the FBI and the BATF to make sure I wasn't a wanted felon, and also that I wasn't on the no fly list. I’m already on my own no fly list!


I had to give them my drivers license, my birth certificate, finger prints, and my social security number. The form I had to fill out was three pages long, and they even took my picture!

Then they called all the local gun stores and hardwares to see if I had purchased any number of items including nails and black powder.



After 3 hours of interrogation under a hot bright light, they let me purchase the pressure cooker. I wasn't allowed to take it home with me, as there is a three day waiting period. But they did let me have the receipt and the instructions.



After the three day wait was over, I made the 100 mile round trip back to town to get my pressure cooker.

As I was entering the store, I saw a woman walking out wearing a grin from ear to ear. She was carrying a box, and in it was a new pressure cooker.

I was filled with anticipation as I too hoped to walk out the door with a big grin, carrying my own pressure cooker.



I eagerly walked back to the housewares dept, and found a guy who looked like Floyd the barber, or Mr Whipple, although he wasn't holding any scissors, nor roll of butt ribbon.

He took my receipt as I enthusiastically presented it to him. He read it carefully, and called store security as well as the store manager. It took about ten minutes, but they both showed up together.

The store security guard was fully equipped. He had handcuffs, a baton, and what appeared to be a Glock .45 cal pistol in a holster by his side. These things didn't concern me so much, as this is a pretty common sight. But what did raise my hackles was the scary black rifle, with the shoulder thing that goes up strapped to his back. Even of more concern was that we was wearing a bullet proof vest.



Each of them checked my receipt again, and also asked for my ID.

Upon verifying I was actually who I said I was, they led me to the back of the store, and I felt like some kind of shoplifter being led away into detention. People stared and sneered at me as I was being led by these three. I could almost hear the laughing voices in their heads yelling, HA! finally caught that son of a so and so!

Inasmuch as I looked like a criminal being led away, I felt like one.

We passed through the swinging doors at the rear of the store, and I relaxed a little as the weight of their condescending eyes lifted off of me.


We were now in the behind the scenes part of the store, which is also where they store all the stuff they say they’re out of, but too lazy to retrieve

We passed by a few office doors of which most were closed. We then passed what looked like holding cells for the people who think the world owes them things for free, and it was my hope I wouldn’t be further embarrassed by having to wait in one.


We stopped at a rather large steel door, Mr. mall ninja pressed a button, and a few seconds later a slit opened in the door and a pair off peering eyes examined us.

At this point I was wondering why I was being allowed to see all this, and why I hadn’t been blindfolded, or shot with some bat spray to forget everything.

The manager stepped forward, folded my paperwork, and stuffed it through the slot in the door, which immediately slid shut. We waited at least 10 minutes. I now was dying for a cigarette and really needed to take a leak.


The door made a loud clanking noise, and slowly began to open like something out of a dungeon or horror movie. Out came a cart. Not like the normal shopping carts, but more like a cart used in restaurants for busing tables. On the cart sat a box, and in the box was my pressure cooker. With all the hoopla, it felt like Christmas, and I almost let out a little squeal of joy. I really never thought I’d be so happy to see a stupid pot with a locking lid, but oddly enough, I was.

The door slowly closed just as it had opened, and shut with a clang, and the sound of a heavy deadbolt, or maybe it was a bar being placed against the door, made certain this door would not be breached without some magical gnome or something opening it from the inside.


The manager inspected the box, and compared numbers to my receipt making sure everything matched. I was handed the paperwork, and asked to sign at the bottom, verifying I had taken the pressure cooker, and also agreeing that I had no plans to ever be seen with it in any public place including fairs, carnivals or marathons. At this point I would have signed and agreed to anything just to get out and go home for a pee.


I was handed the box, walked to the swinging doors, and asked to exit the store directly through the front doors, not stopping to look at anything, nor talk to anyone.

As I was heading for the doors, I looked back, and could see the security guard had shouldered his rifle, and was hiding partially on an endcap with the barrel pointed in my direction. I felt like quickening my step, but feared if I did it might construe something, and I might end up with a bullet in the back of my head.

I made it through the front doors, and it then hit me why the woman I had earlier seen exiting with a similar pressure cooker had such a **** eating grin on her face.

Free! I was free at last, although I could feel I was still being watched as I placed myself and the stupid pot into the car. I drove away almost feeling like somehow I had just gotten away with something.


I pulled into my driveway almost expecting to be greeted by a swat team, but was instead greeted by my friendly UPS driver, who also happened to look a lot like the janitor off of scrubs.

He handed me a package as I was pulling mine from the car. I set my box on the roof, and as I was signing for my parcel he eyed my box on the roof.

I handed his kindle like thing back to him. He looked at me, then back at my boxed cooker, looked again at me, winked, gave me a thumbs up, and drove off. It occurred to me I could have skipped this whole thing if I had ordered on line, if that was even possible.


I unlocked my door and proceeded to the kitchen table with my loot. I almost tripped over my stupid cat Sammy on the way.

The pressure cooker I placed on the floor being as I already knew what it was, and began opening my UPS box because I didn’t.

Sammy jumped on the table, showed me his butt, then turned his curiosity to the box I was beginning to open.


I pulled out the package, and to my surprise there it was, my super duper rotary cordless drill operated chicken plucker that I had ordered only a day before.

It was sealed in that hard clear plastic stuff that is heat welded all the way around.

Every time I open a package like this, it reminds me of the time I bought a pair of scissors in the same packaging, and the irony that I needed a pair of scissors to get them out, of which the only pair I owned were currently held in by plastic cryptonite which threatened to cut you to the bone if enthusiastically ripped at incorrectly.


I went to retrieve my scissors, and almost stumbled over Sammy who apparently knew exactly where I was going, and was trying to show me the way.

I returned to the table and began trying to free my new super duper rotary cordless drill operated chicken plucker from it’s package. I frustratingly learned that my new scissors probably wouldn’t have been much help in freeing themselves from their previous encapsulation. I don’t remember now how how I got them out, but I think hand grenades and napalm were involved.


I finally set if free though, held it in my hands and admired it. The time this thing was supposed to save me was going to be incredible. No more boiling, no more ripping, and most of all, no more pin feathers!


I got my cordless drill from the kitchen counter, and did the usual struggle to remove the used up rechargeable battery pack, and insert a freshly, ready to go new one.

I inserted my new chicken plucker into the chuck, and pulled the trigger. The plucker made a wonderful, and powerful whooshing sound as the rubber fingers flailed about through the air. Sammy didn’t like it, and tried to swat at it. I chased him off the table by whirring it at him, so he hopped in my living room recliner and chose to watch from afar.


I put down the drill, and proceeded to unpack my pressure cooker while the thought of a nice tender chicken seasoned with plenty of salt and pepper filled my head. My nostrils imagined the smell as a*chicken*cooked in a pot under 25 extra pounds of atmospheric pressure. The carrots would finally be cooked just right, as well as any other veggies I could find in the fridge.

I washed my cooker in plenty of hot soapy water, and placed it in the dish rack to dry.


I went back to the table to clean up my mess. I broke down the boxes, gathered the plastic and threw it all away instructions included. I never read instructions, mostly because they’re translated from Chinese, make no sense, and the diagrams look like they were drawn by a demented five year old.


I picked up my drill motor and pressed the trigger again to hear the delightful sound of the whoosh. I imagined this thing could probably rip the white from rice. It might also work as a rubber fingered paint stripper, but that would have to come later, as there was a rooster who just could hardly wait to take a steam bath.


I walked towards my back door, and on the way spotted my laptop open and already running on-line. I decided to take a minute or two in my excitement to google pressure cooked chicken.

My excitement peaked as I learned it only took Twenty to Twenty five minutes to cook a whole thawed*chicken. Twenty five minutes!

No more baking, basting, or flareups on the grill. Twenty five minutes and a perfectly cooked seasoned chicky with vegetables would be ready to eat. That’s almost as fast as an old time TV dinner, and ten times the food!


My mouth was watering as I grabbed my auto plucker and headed towards the chicken coup.

Whirrrrrr, Whirrrrrr! Went the rubber fingers through air. I Heard the loudmouth Rooster crow, and developed sick smile on my face. Whirrrrrrrrr, Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrr, it went again.


While holding my screw gun, I quietly opened the*chicken*coup door, slipped in, and closed the door behind me.

Sometimes it squeaks, especially on a hot day. It had just rained that morning, so the hinge kept its secret.


I didn’t see any birds in the coup, until I snuck around the back side. There standing in the shade of the corner were my 7 ladies and the Rooster, Loud Mouth Bob.


My rooster Bob has gotten me in so much trouble I’m tired of it.

I’m tired of telling him to shut up. I’m tired of covering for him, like the time Bob wouldn’t shut up, and my neighbor came over to bawl me out. I apologized and explained that Bob was upset because he had cut his foot on something, was bleeding all over the place, and I cauterized it with a soldering iron.

My neighbor left without another word, somehow satisfied that Bob had gotten what he had coming.


Then there was the time I told my neighbor that it wasn’t Bob crowing at 2am. I told him it was my car alarm, and that I had recorded Bob, and programmed his crowing into it. He asked why the alarm was going off, I thought about telling him Sammy had pounced on the car, but I already had used that one. This time I told him the car was broken into.


In order to make it look good, I had to break my own window, and call the cops on myself.

When they arrived and realized nothing had been stolen or vandalized, they accused me, and hauled me off to jail.


Anyways, I’m tired of Bob. The time has come. His number is up. He’s the next contestant on Who’s gonna eat Bob.

I accidentally pressed the trigger while thinking about my night in jail. It startled the chickens, as as Bob. The ladies all retreated into the coop, and there stood Bob, by himself, in the corner.

Bob flapped his wings in act of bravado, and stared at me. I stared back. And there stood Bob and I, just staring at each other, wondering who was going to make the first move.

This was not the first time Bob and I had been in this position. We had done this before, many times, for many reasons, but Bob wasn’t going to win this one. No sir, not this time, sure, he’s kicked my butt a time or two, but this one was mine.

The last time was when I tried to remove his spurs, and he was having nothing to do with it, primarily, since Bob was having nothing to do with it. I almost needed stitches, and had to lose a day at work.


I made the first move. I lunged at him with the plucker going whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Bob dashed up the other side, I ran around to the front, and before he could get there, I slammed the hatch closed on the coop. In the process, I slipped and jammed a shin into the*chicken*ramp. For about the 10,000th time in my life,I again wondered why God had put so many nerves in a place with so little meat. I was wondering this while going *** over tea kettle doing a three quarter flip and landing squarely on my back in the slimy wet chicken mud.

I’m certain the crowing from Bob was not a giggle, it was a full blown belly laugh.

I got regrouped, and chased Bob around the coop three times all the while with the drill running at full speed. Bob was bawking up a storm, and I was yelling profanities at the top of my lungs.

I was covered in mud and chicken muck, my shin hurt, but I wasn’t aware of the blood until a while later.


I finally got Bob squared off in a corner, we were both a bit out of breath, but still determined to do each other in.

I looked at Bob, and purposely revved my drill motor at him a few times, and I lunged in. Bob hopped straight up in the air flapping his wings and darn near tore my eyes out my head with his claws.


I retreated to the house, and made sure my eyes were still in their sockets. I undressed and took a hot shower.

I could still hear Bob crowing his victory over me once again.


So as I sit here with my leg bandaged up and an ice pack on it, I really have only one question.


How do I get this stupid rooster to stay still so I can pluck him?


I think I’ll go find the directions......

Offline

#2 Nov 20, 2017 8:19 pm

New Historian
Active

Re: A tale about a chicken plucker

I've heard shaggy dog stories in my day, but this one takes the cake LOL! Those tem minutes will never come back to me, but ...

Offline

#3 Nov 20, 2017 8:30 pm

Calypso
Active

Re: A tale about a chicken plucker

Expat wrote:

I have to admit it is not me..... Although I have had my moments culling roosters.



I bought a chicken plucker off of ebay for like $40.


Trying to get a rooster ready for the pot. I think I'll use a pressure cooker, although I don't own one, but would really like to check out one of these stove top microwaves, so I drove 50 miles to the nearest getting place.


I went in to buy the pressure cooker, and to my surprise, I was forced to go through a background check.


They checked with TSA, the FBI and the BATF to make sure I wasn't a wanted felon, and also that I wasn't on the no fly list. I’m already on my own no fly list!


I had to give them my drivers license, my birth certificate, finger prints, and my social security number. The form I had to fill out was three pages long, and they even took my picture!

Then they called all the local gun stores and hardwares to see if I had purchased any number of items including nails and black powder.



After 3 hours of interrogation under a hot bright light, they let me purchase the pressure cooker. I wasn't allowed to take it home with me, as there is a three day waiting period. But they did let me have the receipt and the instructions.



After the three day wait was over, I made the 100 mile round trip back to town to get my pressure cooker.

As I was entering the store, I saw a woman walking out wearing a grin from ear to ear. She was carrying a box, and in it was a new pressure cooker.

I was filled with anticipation as I too hoped to walk out the door with a big grin, carrying my own pressure cooker.



I eagerly walked back to the housewares dept, and found a guy who looked like Floyd the barber, or Mr Whipple, although he wasn't holding any scissors, nor roll of butt ribbon.

He took my receipt as I enthusiastically presented it to him. He read it carefully, and called store security as well as the store manager. It took about ten minutes, but they both showed up together.

The store security guard was fully equipped. He had handcuffs, a baton, and what appeared to be a Glock .45 cal pistol in a holster by his side. These things didn't concern me so much, as this is a pretty common sight. But what did raise my hackles was the scary black rifle, with the shoulder thing that goes up strapped to his back. Even of more concern was that we was wearing a bullet proof vest.



Each of them checked my receipt again, and also asked for my ID.

Upon verifying I was actually who I said I was, they led me to the back of the store, and I felt like some kind of shoplifter being led away into detention. People stared and sneered at me as I was being led by these three. I could almost hear the laughing voices in their heads yelling, HA! finally caught that son of a so and so!

Inasmuch as I looked like a criminal being led away, I felt like one.

We passed through the swinging doors at the rear of the store, and I relaxed a little as the weight of their condescending eyes lifted off of me.


We were now in the behind the scenes part of the store, which is also where they store all the stuff they say they’re out of, but too lazy to retrieve

We passed by a few office doors of which most were closed. We then passed what looked like holding cells for the people who think the world owes them things for free, and it was my hope I wouldn’t be further embarrassed by having to wait in one.


We stopped at a rather large steel door, Mr. mall ninja pressed a button, and a few seconds later a slit opened in the door and a pair off peering eyes examined us.

At this point I was wondering why I was being allowed to see all this, and why I hadn’t been blindfolded, or shot with some bat spray to forget everything.

The manager stepped forward, folded my paperwork, and stuffed it through the slot in the door, which immediately slid shut. We waited at least 10 minutes. I now was dying for a cigarette and really needed to take a leak.


The door made a loud clanking noise, and slowly began to open like something out of a dungeon or horror movie. Out came a cart. Not like the normal shopping carts, but more like a cart used in restaurants for busing tables. On the cart sat a box, and in the box was my pressure cooker. With all the hoopla, it felt like Christmas, and I almost let out a little squeal of joy. I really never thought I’d be so happy to see a stupid pot with a locking lid, but oddly enough, I was.

The door slowly closed just as it had opened, and shut with a clang, and the sound of a heavy deadbolt, or maybe it was a bar being placed against the door, made certain this door would not be breached without some magical gnome or something opening it from the inside.


The manager inspected the box, and compared numbers to my receipt making sure everything matched. I was handed the paperwork, and asked to sign at the bottom, verifying I had taken the pressure cooker, and also agreeing that I had no plans to ever be seen with it in any public place including fairs, carnivals or marathons. At this point I would have signed and agreed to anything just to get out and go home for a pee.


I was handed the box, walked to the swinging doors, and asked to exit the store directly through the front doors, not stopping to look at anything, nor talk to anyone.

As I was heading for the doors, I looked back, and could see the security guard had shouldered his rifle, and was hiding partially on an endcap with the barrel pointed in my direction. I felt like quickening my step, but feared if I did it might construe something, and I might end up with a bullet in the back of my head.

I made it through the front doors, and it then hit me why the woman I had earlier seen exiting with a similar pressure cooker had such a **** eating grin on her face.

Free! I was free at last, although I could feel I was still being watched as I placed myself and the stupid pot into the car. I drove away almost feeling like somehow I had just gotten away with something.


I pulled into my driveway almost expecting to be greeted by a swat team, but was instead greeted by my friendly UPS driver, who also happened to look a lot like the janitor off of scrubs.

He handed me a package as I was pulling mine from the car. I set my box on the roof, and as I was signing for my parcel he eyed my box on the roof.

I handed his kindle like thing back to him. He looked at me, then back at my boxed cooker, looked again at me, winked, gave me a thumbs up, and drove off. It occurred to me I could have skipped this whole thing if I had ordered on line, if that was even possible.


I unlocked my door and proceeded to the kitchen table with my loot. I almost tripped over my stupid cat Sammy on the way.

The pressure cooker I placed on the floor being as I already knew what it was, and began opening my UPS box because I didn’t.

Sammy jumped on the table, showed me his butt, then turned his curiosity to the box I was beginning to open.


I pulled out the package, and to my surprise there it was, my super duper rotary cordless drill operated chicken plucker that I had ordered only a day before.

It was sealed in that hard clear plastic stuff that is heat welded all the way around.

Every time I open a package like this, it reminds me of the time I bought a pair of scissors in the same packaging, and the irony that I needed a pair of scissors to get them out, of which the only pair I owned were currently held in by plastic cryptonite which threatened to cut you to the bone if enthusiastically ripped at incorrectly.


I went to retrieve my scissors, and almost stumbled over Sammy who apparently knew exactly where I was going, and was trying to show me the way.

I returned to the table and began trying to free my new super duper rotary cordless drill operated chicken plucker from it’s package. I frustratingly learned that my new scissors probably wouldn’t have been much help in freeing themselves from their previous encapsulation. I don’t remember now how how I got them out, but I think hand grenades and napalm were involved.


I finally set if free though, held it in my hands and admired it. The time this thing was supposed to save me was going to be incredible. No more boiling, no more ripping, and most of all, no more pin feathers!


I got my cordless drill from the kitchen counter, and did the usual struggle to remove the used up rechargeable battery pack, and insert a freshly, ready to go new one.

I inserted my new chicken plucker into the chuck, and pulled the trigger. The plucker made a wonderful, and powerful whooshing sound as the rubber fingers flailed about through the air. Sammy didn’t like it, and tried to swat at it. I chased him off the table by whirring it at him, so he hopped in my living room recliner and chose to watch from afar.


I put down the drill, and proceeded to unpack my pressure cooker while the thought of a nice tender chicken seasoned with plenty of salt and pepper filled my head. My nostrils imagined the smell as a*chicken*cooked in a pot under 25 extra pounds of atmospheric pressure. The carrots would finally be cooked just right, as well as any other veggies I could find in the fridge.

I washed my cooker in plenty of hot soapy water, and placed it in the dish rack to dry.


I went back to the table to clean up my mess. I broke down the boxes, gathered the plastic and threw it all away instructions included. I never read instructions, mostly because they’re translated from Chinese, make no sense, and the diagrams look like they were drawn by a demented five year old.


I picked up my drill motor and pressed the trigger again to hear the delightful sound of the whoosh. I imagined this thing could probably rip the white from rice. It might also work as a rubber fingered paint stripper, but that would have to come later, as there was a rooster who just could hardly wait to take a steam bath.


I walked towards my back door, and on the way spotted my laptop open and already running on-line. I decided to take a minute or two in my excitement to google pressure cooked chicken.

My excitement peaked as I learned it only took Twenty to Twenty five minutes to cook a whole thawed*chicken. Twenty five minutes!

No more baking, basting, or flareups on the grill. Twenty five minutes and a perfectly cooked seasoned chicky with vegetables would be ready to eat. That’s almost as fast as an old time TV dinner, and ten times the food!


My mouth was watering as I grabbed my auto plucker and headed towards the chicken coup.

Whirrrrrr, Whirrrrrr! Went the rubber fingers through air. I Heard the loudmouth Rooster crow, and developed sick smile on my face. Whirrrrrrrrr, Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrr, it went again.


While holding my screw gun, I quietly opened the*chicken*coup door, slipped in, and closed the door behind me.

Sometimes it squeaks, especially on a hot day. It had just rained that morning, so the hinge kept its secret.


I didn’t see any birds in the coup, until I snuck around the back side. There standing in the shade of the corner were my 7 ladies and the Rooster, Loud Mouth Bob.


My rooster Bob has gotten me in so much trouble I’m tired of it.

I’m tired of telling him to shut up. I’m tired of covering for him, like the time Bob wouldn’t shut up, and my neighbor came over to bawl me out. I apologized and explained that Bob was upset because he had cut his foot on something, was bleeding all over the place, and I cauterized it with a soldering iron.

My neighbor left without another word, somehow satisfied that Bob had gotten what he had coming.


Then there was the time I told my neighbor that it wasn’t Bob crowing at 2am. I told him it was my car alarm, and that I had recorded Bob, and programmed his crowing into it. He asked why the alarm was going off, I thought about telling him Sammy had pounced on the car, but I already had used that one. This time I told him the car was broken into.


In order to make it look good, I had to break my own window, and call the cops on myself.

When they arrived and realized nothing had been stolen or vandalized, they accused me, and hauled me off to jail.


Anyways, I’m tired of Bob. The time has come. His number is up. He’s the next contestant on Who’s gonna eat Bob.

I accidentally pressed the trigger while thinking about my night in jail. It startled the chickens, as as Bob. The ladies all retreated into the coop, and there stood Bob, by himself, in the corner.

Bob flapped his wings in act of bravado, and stared at me. I stared back. And there stood Bob and I, just staring at each other, wondering who was going to make the first move.

This was not the first time Bob and I had been in this position. We had done this before, many times, for many reasons, but Bob wasn’t going to win this one. No sir, not this time, sure, he’s kicked my butt a time or two, but this one was mine.

The last time was when I tried to remove his spurs, and he was having nothing to do with it, primarily, since Bob was having nothing to do with it. I almost needed stitches, and had to lose a day at work.


I made the first move. I lunged at him with the plucker going whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Bob dashed up the other side, I ran around to the front, and before he could get there, I slammed the hatch closed on the coop. In the process, I slipped and jammed a shin into the*chicken*ramp. For about the 10,000th time in my life,I again wondered why God had put so many nerves in a place with so little meat. I was wondering this while going *** over tea kettle doing a three quarter flip and landing squarely on my back in the slimy wet chicken mud.

I’m certain the crowing from Bob was not a giggle, it was a full blown belly laugh.

I got regrouped, and chased Bob around the coop three times all the while with the drill running at full speed. Bob was bawking up a storm, and I was yelling profanities at the top of my lungs.

I was covered in mud and chicken muck, my shin hurt, but I wasn’t aware of the blood until a while later.


I finally got Bob squared off in a corner, we were both a bit out of breath, but still determined to do each other in.

I looked at Bob, and purposely revved my drill motor at him a few times, and I lunged in. Bob hopped straight up in the air flapping his wings and darn near tore my eyes out my head with his claws.


I retreated to the house, and made sure my eyes were still in their sockets. I undressed and took a hot shower.

I could still hear Bob crowing his victory over me once again.


So as I sit here with my leg bandaged up and an ice pack on it, I really have only one question.


How do I get this stupid rooster to stay still so I can pluck him?


I think I’ll go find the directions......


Stop your cockamamie stories! Get a life!

Offline

#4 Nov 20, 2017 11:19 pm

Expat
Active

Re: A tale about a chicken plucker

New Historian wrote:

I've heard shaggy dog stories in my day, but this one takes the cake LOL! Those tem minutes will never come back to me, but ...

It amused me... I liked the care over pressure cookers compared to the availability of firearms.

Not one has evaded me... whether it was in the coup, or when I had to bring in the PCP rifle, one way or another it went in the pot.

10 minutes... I can suggest a good speed reading tutor... LoL.

Offline

#5 Nov 21, 2017 8:16 am

Slice
Active

Re: A tale about a chicken plucker

Well lord, what ah Long story that could of been said in much less time.  The interesting thing, is that I read the whole damn thing.  I guess I was looking for the Punch Line, and it never ever came.

What part of the world did that happen?  I swear I have no problems buying ah Pressure Cooker, ah just go to Macys or Bed bath and Beyond, buy the damn thing and leave.

Offline

#6 Nov 21, 2017 10:18 am

New Historian
Active

Re: A tale about a chicken plucker

"I guess I was looking for the Punch Line, and it never ever came." That's what they call in England a shaggy dog story. My friend in Grenada, oh god don't let him start telling you the one about the Calliste dog!

Offline

#7 Nov 21, 2017 11:54 am

Real Distwalker
Active

Re: A tale about a chicken plucker

Pressure cooker control.  Wow.  Who knew?

Offline

#8 Nov 21, 2017 12:06 pm

Slice
Active

Re: A tale about a chicken plucker

Clarkes Court will do that to Spicemen.

Offline

Board footer

Powered by FluxBB