Idiom Spewing Chicken

Farmer Tucker always boasted that he had the smartest chickens in the entire state. He said this as a joke mainly, because he used the hen house as a place to store all of the books he had collected over the years. Secretly, though, he thought that, just maybe, being around all of that literature did help the chickens win gold medals every year at the state fair, but he would never tell anyone that with any amount of seriousness in his voice.

It wasn't until the chickens ran amok and ate a good number of his stored books that Farmer Tucker noticed something strange. Late at night he would sometimes hear strange platitudes on the wind, like a whisper of advice about a fool and his money or getting up on the wrong side of the bed. He would dismiss it and turn over, thinking that he was just lonely out there on his huge farm with only his livestock for company. This went on for a few weeks and Farmer Tucker found himself thinking in idioms as he went about his daily chores. 

All the while, his chickens were acting strange; they would be clucking away madly while he was out in the cow pasture, but the moment he even looked in their direction, all of the chickens would go quiet, face the same direction, and stare. Farmer Tucker confessed to himself that it was a bit unsettling, but he thought, again, that it must just be his solitary lifestyle getting the better of him. Well, that and all of those strange whisperings and creepy novels he had been reading recently. 

The night before the state fair, Farmer Tucker was unable to sleep. Every time he found himself drifting off he would be awakened with a thought about a house divided that could not stand or blood that was thicker than water. He was starting to develop a cold sweat, a slight headache, and the shakes. He thought it was nerves, so he got up around two in the morning and thought he would get an early start on the chores, the first of which was to feed the chickens. As he made his way across the yard toward the hen house the words began to grow clearer and stronger in his mind; he had bitten off more than he could chew, he had looked a gift horse in the mouth, it was down to the wire, and drastic times call for drastic measures.

He scratched at the stubble on his chin, ignoring the words rebounding around the confines of his skull. He reached out for the door to the hen house, it was quiet except for a strange squishing noise. He thought, "I should go for broke and eighty-six the morning chores. I have a gut feeling that there is some chicken in here with an axe to grind and I should be head over heels with the idea of putting the pedal to the medal and going back to bed. He rubbed his eyes and thought he was being crazy, "Hold your horses old Tuck," he said to himself out loud without even knowing he had spoken, "no chicken would ever bite the hand that feeds it. Better get yourself together or the fair judges will think you aren't playing with a full deck." 

Farmer Tucker opened the door and the sight that met his eyes completely blanked his mind of all thought and identity. There were his chickens all in a circle with a single chicken standing in the center. Every few seconds there would be a violent "hurk!" and words, plain as day, would spill forth from the chicken's mouth and splatter on the floor. After one particularly messy one, all of the chickens looked up at Farmer Tucker in unison. Nodding, he stepped inside the hen house and closed the door.

Effervescent Political Shorts

The referendum passed with overwhelming support in every state of the country. A wizard was promptly hired and a spell was placed on all politicians that had some rather humorous, yet productive, results. The budget was fixed in a few short weeks, immigration law was agreed upon and put into action, education and jobs began to improve almost immediately, and social issues were given their time in the spotlight. All of this for fear of embarrassment.

The spell was simple: any finger pointing, name calling, or character attack aimed at another politician resulted in the immediate disappearance of the offending person's pants and the expulsion of copious amounts of brightly colored bubbles from their mouth...and their undershorts. This became particularly amusing in the earliest days after the "Embarrass Them Into Doing Their Jobs" referendum, when the presidential candidates stepped up to their respective podiums and decided to duke it out by debasing each other's character. The bubbles in the room were so thick that it was difficult to make out the hilariously colored undershorts that each candidate had decided to wear that day. Probably for luck.

Glowing Ballerina Hat

Growing up, Morgan told everyone that she wanted nothing more than to be a professional baseball player. She made sure she was better than every boy in Minor B, Minor A, and Little League. Then she made it the major leagues. Her mother and father were so proud of her for sticking to her dreams and not giving up though she was faced with many hurdles that would have tripped up a lesser woman. Morgan, however, had a secret; she wanted to be a ballerina. Sure, she really loved baseball and she was happy with where she was at professionally, but deep in the most secret portions of her heart, she wanted to dance. She wanted to wear beautiful outfits and glide gracefully across a lit stage with thousands of eyes watching her every move. She wanted this so badly that it began to manifest itself in the form of a tiny ballerina that grew brighter each day until it finally took form atop her baseball cap. Morgan didn't know how to explain it to people. She got stares wherever she went, but she didn't care. The ballerina was cute and when Morgan took off her hat at the end of a long day the ballerina would dance for her, gliding seamlessly across the bill as if on the world's most flawless stage. One day, when signing autographs at a local Girl's Club, Morgan found another person with a tiny, shiny figure upon her head. The girl was about twelve years old and looked like she had just come from dance class. Upon her perfectly pulled back bun sat the figure of a girl dressed in baseball pants and wearing a jersey with the number 44 embroidered on the back; Morgan's jersey number was 44. The little figure silently swung a bat and pointed at imaginary bleachers far in the distance. Morgan smiled at the girl, reached up, and touched her hat. The girl smiled back and touched her hair. They both laughed.

-Rob Signed Off

PS: Thanks to Cara Keyser for submitting the phrase for today's design!

Patriotic Carp Tunnel

A little known fact about the Revolutionary War is that George Washington's famous crossing of the Delaware River in December of 1776 was made possible by the bravery of a school of genetically modified, patriotic carp. These carp, created by a collaboration between Albert Einstein, Charles Darwin, and Nikola Tesla, three time-traveling super scientist heroes bent on maintaining the proper flow of time and events for the good of all mankind. The carp were developed to hunt down enemy submersibles that Washington didn't even know existed. Plans for the submersibles made their way into enemy hands via an accidental time jump when a technician dropped his fish filet sandwich and hit his head on the "send" button as he bent down to pick it up. So, when you salute the flag or sing the National Anthem, remember all the patriotic carp that made it possible.

-Rob Signed Off

Anxiously Modern Furniture

I have been on sale at Ken's Current Furniture for four long years. I was a trade-in for a particle board entertainment stand. Ken decided to keep me out on the showroom floor as a joke, something for people to compare with their more modern purchases. I can't say its been easy. Nobody has an eye for the elegant anymore. I'm not kitschy enough, that is to say, I'm not kitschy at all, and people don't like that. My cherry finish can't compete with the bright, neon colors of these amorphous abominations that have the gall to call themselves furniture. Sure, my seat is a little faded and there are a few small scratches in my glossy coat, but I'm sturdy. I'll last forever. You'll be lucky if that porn-film knockoff doesn't dump you on your head after six months. I know when to admit defeat, though. If I want to be useful again I have to get with the times. I'm not going to spend my good years as a joke in overpriced furniture freak show. I already painted my seat a nice orange color, sure it's a little spotty, but I'm already getting more attention. Now I've got a bucket of neon green paint, a brush, and a holiday weekend over which I plan to lower myself into the cesspool of modernity. I hope this gets me out of here, because I can't stand another day of the smug look that orange chair keeps giving me.