Feathered Fun
The Rooster Decides Your Fate
Where I grew up, chicken was something you ordered out of a drive through window. Chicken nuggets, strips, and sandwiches filled my teenage years with deep fried satisfaction. I’d seen chickens on TV, or at an occasional fair clucking around, being feathered nuisances. But until last weekend I didn’t realize the integral part they played in mountain town society.
While looking for something to do last weekend, I stumbled upon something extraordinary. Chicken S**t Bingo. Although it’s name was foul, my curiosity got the best of me. My initial assumption was that it was just a bar’s way to make their bingo stand out among the many others happening around town. Why my town is obsessed with bingo I still don’t fully understand.
Maybe it’s the rush of sitting their silently waiting for someone to call out one number that might be on your board. Perhaps it’s the sensation of seeing a pattern slowly develop across your board like baby’s first battleship. But instead of sinking the proverbial seacraft, you stand up and yell “BINGO!” to the applause and suspicion of everyone else in the room.
So how were chickens involved? Simple. They were the ones making the call. Before you think I’ve gone crazy, I don’t mean verbally. No one was listening to a chicken peck at balls then translating clucks to callouts. There was an entirely different way this game was performed. Something far more gross. And hilarious.
When my wife and I walked into that little bar off the side of a surprisingly busy highway, we received a small square. One number. After paying fully for our food and drinks, the bartender conveniently added, “If that chicken s**ts on your number, you get twenty five percent off yer tab!”
She gave us that bright, bartender smile as we walked away from the counter and stepped outside with our numbers. Then we saw it. A magnificent cage placed on chiseled concrete containing a beautiful rooster. His feed hung off the side of the cage in a little convenient bucket, which he constantly took advantage of. He was hungry.
I was hungry too until I saw the remnants of the game being played. Strewn out across this concrete board were carved numbers. They were neatly aligned in a grid of small squares, like a bingo board. Because it was a bingo board. The realization hit me as I began to put together why everyone was staring at this bird.
They weren’t interested in this little rooster’s behavior. Nor were they ornithologists studying avian behavior. These customers were patiently waiting for the bird to poop.
“Twenty three. Come on girl.” One guy whispered, apparently not knowing that roosters were male.
“Twelve. You know you like twelve. Tsk tsk tsk.” He tried to call the chicken over to number twelve.
One gentleman, old and wise in years didn’t say anything. He just pointed at his square and nodded like a sensei giving silent orders to his student. My wife and I just sat there and laughed to ourselves as we saw how seriously everyone was taking it. Sure, they were playful, but it seemed like they had been stranded in the bar waiting for that little chicken to drop a golden nugget.
Well, depending on the price of their tab, the discount could’ve been worth a golden nugget. We made our way inside as the rooster started to make indicative movements. The crowd tensed as the rooster suddenly dropped his fecal load onto a number no one had. His delivery was accompanied by the groans of all the beer guzzlers that waited so patiently for his rear ended announcement. We chuckled and went inside.
The rest of our trip went by smoothly, with delicious burgers, fries, and a hot sauce that wasn’t spicy, but flavorful enough to make me crave it. Then, it hit me. I excused myself to the restroom as I stood in front of a dingy wooden door. A random lady came up behind me and stood way too close.
“Well, looks like there are two bathrooms.” She said, brushing up against me. “I guess we’re lucky.” She was slender, with tattoos on both arms and a smoky aroma. I wasn’t interested.
“Uh, yeah.” I said as the door in front of me swung open. “I’ll, uh, be right back.” I said and waved at the flirtatious stranger before shutting the door behind me and looking at the receptacle. That’s when I decided that I’d be only leaving a brief message, not having a full sit down conversation. It was cleaner than most bars, but still bore the stains of a wild night’s past. I don’t like to introduce my rear end to that kind of history.
After leaving the bathroom, the lady was thankfully occupied somewhere else. I asked my wife if she was ready to go, and we both left the bar in high spirits. But deep down I knew I needed to return home or else I’d be adding to that bingo card. And no one wanted to bet on those numbers.
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