Chicken Tale

This ain't much. But it's better than nothin'. A whole lot better than a regular winding Hillbilly Mom post, some may think. Watch out, thinkers. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is psychic. The Gummi Mary will get you for that.

I am at Open House. Which means I am not typing this right now. I typed it last night around 10:56, to be precise, and pasted it here to look like it's fresh. Kind of like a grocery store around here used to take its outdated chicken and soak it in bleach to hide the smell of decay, and then slap a new wrapper and date on it and try to sell it again. Oh, they've gone out of business now. No need to worry about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom succumbing to salmonella. She's healthy as a horse. So healthy, her dentist calls her 'Babe', hopefully not like the pig. Mrs. HM did not learn of the bespoiled chicken caper from being psychic. Laws, NO! She learned about it by M-O-O-N. That spells, "When she adjudicated an unemployment claim from a butcher's helper who was fired from that store." Oh, you may think he was just another disgruntled chicken-bleacher...but Mrs. HM compiled enough evidence from other witnesses to get that man his unemployment benefits. And in case you were wondering, no, we did not notify the Department of Health. That wasn't OUR job. And you see, in state agencies, you do not do any more than what your job description entails. That's how those folks roll, and it doesn't pay to rock the boat, because then somebody would have to pay the piper for blowing the whistle, and that would be yours truly.

But that's neither here nor there, kind of like Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, who is definitely not here tonight, but there instead, opening the house for the bright shiny new school year.

Which is almost over, you know.