Sunday, February 26, 2017

Chickens (heart) Pringles

The duckless chickens are happier now their aquatic oppressor was choppered out by US marines after its regime collapse but instead of the duck looming at the gate it's now the chickens.

And it's because of Pringles. I first gave them generic Ps that I did not want, the slices crackled to bits in my palm then scattered across the pen dirt. And they enjoyed that muchly.

Then on a whim, and as a means to not eat all the Pringles, I experimented with the name brand efforts.

The result is the five of them waiting patiently for much of the day at the gate, two half-embedded in holes they've dug, for the next golden shower of Pringle shards.

I've accidentally hooked them on a chicken opiate. I might have to ween them off.

I bet the Pringle equivalent of methadone is generic chips from a no-name brand---the kind my mother got us for school lunches in the '80s that she packaged in the smallest of sandwich bags. 

I'll also need a bunch of small cups and some "Try sport instead!" pamphlets.

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