Even a Chicken Needs to Show Respect

Forgot today’s dose of Christopher Walken. I think these things are best presented out of context. One of these days I have to PG the Walken pieces up. Some are over the line.

This chicken was wandering around the compound, and I was sitting on the deck trying to enjoy a Bosco while Benny buried a midget under my poinciana tree, and I kept yelling. “HEY. CHICKEN. DON’T DISRESPECT MY YARD, MY FRIEND. DON’T TAKE US TO THAT PLACE THIS EARLY IN THE DAY, WHILE THE HOLE UNDER THE POINCIANA TREE IS STILL OPEN AND I HAVE YET TO FINISH MY BOSCO.”

And the chicken looks right at me and drops a giant load on my salvia divinorum. Which Mickey Rourke was planning to make into a refreshing salad.

Mick still lives with me. Out of necessity. You want some more Latin? “Dementia pugilistica.” Sounds like one of Caesar’s girlfriends or the name of a gaudy shrub, but it’s actually the sad, sad aftereffect of Mick’s tragic infatuation with the squared circle. He wanders around under the mango trees, in his rollerblades and bikini briefs, feinting and bobbing and occasionally pawing at the cobwebs, to remove them from the foliage. And of course, the cobwebs aren’t really there. Any more than the giant orange hamster named “Morris” that dances in the living room of the caretaker’s shack while Mick hangs from his gravity boots, trying to watch MTV Cribs.

Salvia divinorum is highly hallucinogenic, so it exacerbates Mick’s delusions, but Mick says it’s crunchy and delicious, and I figure, what’s the harm? Mick likes it, and Morris says he enjoys the company. The other day Mick said he was having a tea party for Morris, Abraham Lincoln, a guy in a diver’s suit, and a talking beaver. I don’t know whether they drank the tea or smoked it.

One more:

I am not an Imus fan. I want to admit that up front. If I want to listen to a mean old fart ramble for three hours, I’ll call my Uncle Sid and ask how he feels about childproof caps.

I’m not even sure if Imus talks. Have you ever seen his lips move? I have a theory that Imus went into a coma in about ‘89, and ever since then, the voice has been coming from a speaker in his cowboy hat, attached to a wire. At the other end? Wilford Brimley. And an empty bottle of Robitussin.

Someone help me. I can’t stop.

Anyway, when I realized April was going to be one of the coldest on record, I collected my perennial houseguest Mickey Rourke, and I told him to double up on the Ritalin and get the ’62 De Ville ready, because we were going to Punxsutawney again.

It took a little longer than I thought, because at one point a jamook in a uniform had the stones to ask me to pay a toll.

“Oh, no, my friend,” I told him, as Mick held his head in the door of the De Ville and applied the appropriate amount of pressure, “Christopher Walken does not PAY tolls. He COLLECTS them.” And I shook him down for a fin. Unfortunately he had no cash on him. So I went in the toll booth to see if he had anything to hold as, you know, collateral.

And now I have a very nice Thermos. All metal, baby. Old school. Keeps your coffee hot, and in a pinch it can be used to break an uncooperative jaw.