Are You Chicken?

For a lot of reasons, being a chicken would be a rough way to go.  Least of all you go through your short life hearing people indirectly make fun of you by saying things like, "Hey, why don't you jump: are you chicken?"  On top of that you're ugly, have wings but can't fly and likely will end up in a situation similar to the chicken in this picture.

Speaking of that, you should give this doggone chicken a try if you haven't already done so.  It comes in assorted flavors (which may be a further insult to the chicken) and cost about the same as a combo meal at Chick-fil-A.  Sam's Club Member's Mark Chicken.  As Andy Taylor might have said around the family dinner table in 1963, "Ain't Bee, that sure is some mighty-fine chicken...mmm-mmm, might-fine!"

I wonder, given the choice, would most chickens rather wind up in a Chick-fil-A combo meal or a plastic tray at Sam's Club?  Perhaps Klietus will do some light research on that and get back with us.  Or, perhaps another Harvard study is in order?

Well, until I hear back from Klietus or the fine folks at Harvard, I'll do my best to keep you posted on all things chicken:)
 

That's a Good Question!

The right question at the right time!

A few years ago I was presented with the opportunity to fly around the bush country of British Columbia, Canada in a helicopter.  I only had a minute or two to decide whether or not I wanted to participate.  Against my instincts I responded, "I'm in".

When I walked out to climb in the helicopter that had moments before landed on the parking lot of Pioneer Log Homes of BC, I was surprised to discover a young man sitting in the pilots seat who looked to be maybe 21 or 22...tops.   Nothing against Yutes (I was once one myself) but I would have much preferred a helicopter pilot old enough to have legally voted in at least two previous presidential elections: even if they voted for the wrong guy.

As a general rule, I choose to not fly around in helicopters.  Flying around in a helicopter feels similar to what it might be like to fly around in a rock held up by fan blades.   And rocks don't float from the air: they plummet.  If the word "plummet" is ever used as an action verb in a sentence in which you're mentioned, it will likely make the front page of your local online newspaper describing the manner in which you died.   The exception being, if you're a plumber and someone in Cracker Barrel points you out as "...the fella what plummeted our house."  I'm not huge on plummeting.

After we'd made our second take off and landing on our way to two more take offs and landings, I mentioned to the young lad in the flyer's seat, "You seem kind of young to be a helicopter pilot: how long you been flying?"  "About a year", he replied.  I thought to myself, "About a year? Does that mean he may have been flying for maybe 10 or 11 months?"  Me: "I'll be darned."  Then I asked him what he did for a living before he started flying helicopters.  With no hesitation he responded, "I was a heavy equipment operator."  Now, I have nothing against heavy equipment operators either: I once was one myself.  But I would have much preferred a response like, "I flew F-15's for 9 years before I realized all I really ever wanted to do was be a helicopter pilot.  Fortunately all things turned out well and I'm still around to write this post.

Asking the right question at the right time may be one of the most under-rated actions known to modern man.  I'll have to ask my good Ol' friend, Nickadimus for his opinion on that:).  In the meantime, I'll try to keep you posted.