Silly Stuff

Just to lighten things up a bit, I thought I'd post a short story I wrote for my daughter. I hope she doesn't mind me sharing it. Background: I used to live in the Hutt Valley. I can't cook.


How the Chicken got its Name.


Once upon a time, in a small country settlement, where the local War Memorial records more names than there is now people living there, existed a little, old and wizened, nomadic man, called, um, lets say, ‘Pat’.

One day, Pat, whose tumbledown cottage was infested with rats in the walls and ceilings, decided that he would like a meal of Butter Chicken (and Yes, rats and Butter Chicken can be in the same story—you’ve obviously never dined in that place of mine in Naenae.)

Anyway, in the interests of editorial efficiency, lets assume that Pat has driven the nearly 85km return trip to New World (I know—a bloody long way to find an expensive supermarket, but that’s story telling for ya.) and purchased the ingredients for his first ever attempt at Indian Cuisine (ah, oxymoron’s - don’tcha just love em?).

Assuming that Butter Chicken meals need rice, some chicken and some butter, that is what Pat purchased.

Fortuitously (for the sake of this story anyway) he already had at home in the pantry, a jar of Buttery Chickeny stuff along with multitudinous other condiments, the contents and use of which are a mystery to him so it mattered not a jot that he was, culinarily speaking, clueless.

Back to the rats.

In an attempt to reduce their numbers, copious amounts of poison baits had been thrown around the ceiling space and into wall cavities.

It was hoped that
a) the rats would scoff it and crawl off somewhere and just die and
b) that that somewhere, was no where near where he could smell them.

Fast-forward a few hours.

Pat has wrestled with a brace of cold, clammy chicken legs (chilled porridge mixed with over ripe yogurt in a paddling pool is another old favourite of his but that’s another story) and as best he could, removed the meatier bits from the bone. Conscious of his now trim waistline, he overrode his urge to eat the skin as well.

Setting aside a few of the choicer pieces of chicken flesh as a treat for his cat, Pat proceeded to cook and then eat his meal of Butter Chicken.

He lived.

His cat did not at once eat all of the tasty chicken treats laid out for her so, mindful that she may deign to return to the meal later, Pat nonchalantly picked up the plate, and placed it (temporarily no doubt) in the microwave oven, to keep it free of flies and rats and mice and especially other chickens that think that they can just walk in and shit everywhere and eat cat biscuits and shit everywhere and jump onto the dining table and shit everywhere, the dirty little bastards.

A few days later, the rat like activities seemed to be unchecked, but a quick reconnaissance indicated that baits had been taken.

Which inevitably (if the boast on the packaging was true) meant that some rats had eaten some baits and that of those rats which had eaten some baits, some of those rats would now be, as they say in parrot circles, ex rats—dead as a dead rat can be and not in fact still be alive.

But damn, if there wasn’t getting to be a bit of a niff in the air and the usual male grooming habit of a quick sniff of the pits, showed it wasn’t coming from him.

Not all, anyway. It was possible, but unlikely that the Butter Chicken had backed up on its way to the septic tank, but hey, as they say in Italy, ’Sheet? It happens. Ciao!’

It is true to say, that Pat, the hero of this story, didn’t want to think too much about just where the dead rats had crawled to die; and if enough windows were open, it really wasn’t too much of a problem (certainly not on the scale of the morning after Butter Chicken night).

In much the same pioneering spirit that saw the winning of the West, the smell was just ignored since its source was likely to be in a wall, somewhere.

Then, one day, a visitor.

‘Phew, what’s that smell, Pat?’

‘Dunno’ said Pat. ‘Rat, I think,’

‘It smells like its coming from your microwave, mate’ said the visitor. ‘Why would you keep a rat in your microwave?’

‘Ophuk, the Chicken!!!’ said Pat.

And that, dear Reader, is how Ophuk the Chicken got its name.

LOL Fabulous. I hope you have entered this story in some lucrative short story competition Pat LOL

lol!!

did you end up entering this in a comp?

I find it amusing it is about a chicken - after last nights convo wit SamIam...

oh man, i laughed out loud reading this - fantastic!!