Thursday, May 22, 2008

I was having breakfast with my dad a few weeks back, and he told me this story:

My father grew up in Clinton, IA, and when he was four years old, he was riding the bus with his mother. At that time, 1942, it was common for people to keep chickens (I don't know if it was part of contributing to the war effort, or if it was simply a fact of mid-century life in a small city in Iowa, but I like the phrase "victory chickens," so I'm leaning toward the former). A heavy-set woman got on the bus with a crate of chicks she had just purchased, and as she was fumbling for her bus token, she dropped the crate.

Suddenly, there were chicks everywhere, scampering down the aisle and darting under the seats. As the poor woman was bent over, frantically trying to collect them all and put them back in the crate, she let off a tremendous fart.

The bus driver then turned and said, "that's right lady, if you can't find 'em, shoot 'em!"