We brought in July with a party for my brother at his house. He turned forty today. That's not what this is about, nor is it about the 65,000 tamales brought in, or the carnitas tacos and four homemade salsas from the farm. It's not about the ping pong tournament or the dude that tried to shark us talking bout "that's not actually how the international competition rules go..." whatever dude. It's not about following my little nephew out to the back yard because he wanted to go "play war against the girls" and he was carrying a hammer and a bag full of rocks.
This is about chickens. My brother has about 20 of them. They run all over his back yard, and consequently, so do all the little kids trying to catch and carry them. The chickens are pretty used to this, due to the fact that there are three little ones living there and torturing them on a daily basis. So, they acquiesce to the manhandling pretty readily:
This is my niece. She had a grand old time chasing this old bird and carrying it all over the place. My daughter got into it, for a little while, but then told me that chickens are a little boring. I concur. My son Miles, however, thought that chickens were the most disgusting creatures ever to walk the face of the earth. This picture doesn't do it justice, but every time a chicken would come clucking and bwacking close to us, miles would screw up his face like he just smelled some cat pee and holler at the chicken.
And I mean holler. If he could speak, I'm sure he'd be saying: "what the f*** kind of horrible animal is that abomination? Mother, kill it instantly before I vomit into my own eye sockets so I don't have to bear witness to such an awful creature!" But he can't talk, so he just said Baaaaaah! as loud as he could. You tell 'em Milesy.
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