It’s hard to choose which of the six to write about.
Maybe I should update you on the Platypus Sock Company which offered me five
bucks to keep their lousy products instead of returning them for a partial
refund. I accepted their lowball offer, an email they ignored, and the next day
they upped their ante and offered me eight instead. Three more dollars was
tempting, but their insecurity was suspicious and, deciding that communication
isn’t their strong suit, I let it go. Until this morning. Today they sent me an
email requesting a review on their product. I nearly sent a link to the scathing
critique I posted here, but I don’t need any more trolls following my blog, so
I condensed my feelings and told them what I really think about the way they
scammed me out of fifty bucks. When I clicked “Send” I got an immediate reply.
They offered me 13% off my next purchase in appreciation.
I’m not sure how to interpret that.
I mean, they’re foreigners so maybe they don’t realize
that the number 13 is never up to anything good over here. Don’t you think that’s
a weird percentage to offer anyway? Ten or fifteen per cent off I could
understand, but thirteen? Maybe I should hold out for more. If I turn them down
today, they might offer me fourteen tomorrow. Stay tuned. This is getting
interesting.
My email was filled with inspiration today. I have a
credit card with a clothing company that I pay off every month. Their clothes
are so overpriced and poorly manufactured, though, that it’s been easy to let
that zero-balance ride lately. Last week they notified me that if I continue to
expect paper bills from them, they’re going to charge me an extra fee.
Well, that’s a first. I don’t understand this. It’s
not like this country wants to save trees anymore. There’s some comedienne
doing ads on tv now who calls herself a “paperologist” and shames people in
public for using plastic bags or buying food that comes in plastic containers.
I wish the government would make up its freaking mind. Ten years ago, we were
all branded as entitled consumers for choosing paper over plastic even though
those were the choices given to us. Today we’re labeled as selfish pigs for
filling up landfills with free packaging that will never self-destruct. If you
don’t want us to use plastic, stop making it. Starting with credit cards.
Back to that email. The entire message read, “Your
credit card is ready for your next purchase.” Like it’s an obligation or
something. Or worse, a privilege for me to charge a bunch of overpriced
clothing that’s just going to fall apart in my dryer. This is shamefully self-promoting,
if you ask me, but it did make me laugh. And that’s all I was looking for.
For today’s final contestant, I’m settling on rogue
chickens. I love chickens, from a distance. I don’t want a pet chicken because
they feel creepy when you pick them up, and also dogs are pets, chicken are
dinner. But they’re hilarious in person. They look even sillier than me when
they run, like their arms are tied behind their backs, and they’re so fidgety. What’s
that about? Unfortunately, they also taste good raw if you’re a pesky coyote,
so when the last of Katy’s pastured fowl passed away recently, she drew a line
in the sand that excluded any more chickens. She’s also tired of chicken poop
in the pasture which, I’ll admit, is smelly and disgusting.
But now there are no chickens back there to make me
laugh. There are two funny looking sheep out there who you’d swear are goats
until you gaze into their eyes and realize they’re not looking back at you with
a demonic stare. Goats are creepy. Sometimes the sheep are entertaining, but
the pasture looks so empty now without the menagerie that once lived there that
it makes me sad. Just another reminder that life changes against your will.
But tonight, while I sat watching tv and occasionally
glancing out through the patio doors at the pasture beyond, I was surprised to
see two bright, white, fluffy chickens wandering around in Katy’s vibrant green
pasture, strutting their stuff like they belonged there. I knew this had to be
a miracle. Katy wouldn’t have bought two full grown birds without telling me.
Nobody sells full grown birds anyway. If you want a chicken, you gotta start
from scratch. So to speak. Ain’t nobody got time for baby chicks around here
anymore. I know I’m not raising them. I’m retired.
Upon close inspection, especially considering their alabaster
white feathers, I surmised that these were visitors from heaven, miracles flown
in from the sky or, more likely, dropped from above. I know that’s probably a
real downgrade for angels, being forced to show up in the form of a chicken,
but God’s ways are not our ways. He knows I love chickens. I texted Katy in
excitement. “There are two huge white chickens in the pasture!” “I know,” she
wrote back. “They belong to the family behind us.”
Oh. Right. I always forget that chickens fly, even
over fences. No matter. Real chickens are better than angelic ones anyway. I’d
feel sorry for an angel if he was forced to peck the ground for bugs or run
away with his wings in the air while escaping from a territorial sheep, which
is what happened tonight in the back pasture. It's just not dignified. That bird was airborne in a
matter of seconds and barely made it safely over to her side of the tracks before
Esther came charging at her again. Esther is the mean sheep. Even I stay
out of her way. The other bird was no help at all to her fellow fowl and did nothing
to come to the rescue because chickens are chicken. I’m not really sure what happened
to her, but since I don’t see a pile of white feathers out on that bright green
grass where the sister sheep reign supreme, I think she’s okay. If not, then
she’s flying free like an angel, which is what I thought was going on in the
first place.
So, there you have it. It doesn’t take a lot to make
me laugh. Humor is everywhere if you know where to look. And if you don’t, just
check your inbox.
See ya tomorrow.
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