The chicken dream

(Caution: contains coarse language.)

I just woke up from a dream. It was New Year’s Eve and I was in a grocery store and I wanted chicken. Not just legs or wings, and definitely not anything called a Piknik Pak. I wanted all the pieces, either cut up or, because I am a skilled chef and can cut up my own chickens quite easily, a whole chicken. I recall wanting two of them, in fact, though I’m not sure whether I wanted two chickens because I was cooking for company or because I expected to be hungrier than usual.

Anyway there were no chickens. Just rows and rows of legs. I found the meat man and asked him if there were any whole chickens, then watched while he stood there fiddling with the packages of legs for a solid minute. Finally he noticed a turkey nearby, picked it up, and said, “Here. There’s this.”

I said, “That’s a turkey.”

He said, “But it’s a small one. Like a chicken.”

I pointed out that a turkey is not like a chicken in any way that would serve my immediate purpose.

He looked at me and said, “Fuck you.”

That’s when I woke up.

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