What the Dickens

I am about to start telling you a story. It will be very similar to one that Dickens would tell you, but before I begin, this whole situation of telling stories reminds me of my grandfather who always told me that if I take the time to do anything, I should go it right the first time. He died of cancer. He had cancer twice, but only died the second time, which I wasn’t sure about. No, no, I was sure that he actually died, but I wasn’t sure if he had applied his own saying to himself and done it right the first time. Shouldn’t he have died from the cancer the first time he had it?

Anyway, the story that I’m telling you isn’t about my grandfather—or even about popular sayings, which would make a great story book or even one of those bathroom-humor books that you’ll see people read on the toilet (is that only in America?). I’m an American, you see, so I mention America sometimes and say dumb ass things other times. When I say that I’m American, I mean that I’m from the United States of America. There are a lot of different counties in the Americas. Generally, the Americas are divided into three groups: North, South, and Central. I’m from North America. One country in North America is called The United States of America.

The story that I’m about to tell you is not about North America, popular sayings, or about my grandfather. The story that I’m about to tell you is really good, but, suddenly, I can’t remember which one it was: I have two really great stories that I like to tell people. Sometimes I forget which one I want to tell.

While I try to remember which of the two stories I should tell you, I will mention one other thing that comes to mind: this one time, I was about to tell one of my stories, but I mixed them up as I was telling it. I began one story and then switched suddenly and was in the middle of the other story! I was all muddled: I started one and continued with the second. Gosh, I was so muddled.

I was as muddled as when someone—could be you, me, or even someone like my grandfather (who was a great lover of the out-of-doors and took long walks on the beach when he could fit them in between his various addictions)—who steps in a mud puddle while walking down a logging road in the forest. My grandfather lived near lots and lots of mud puddles because there were some logging roads near his house, which was in a forest, and there was often rain, and so, if you put the two together, you get wet and muddy feet.

Well, it was exactly like these proverbial wet and muddy feet that I began telling both of my stories at once. If the gentle reader can but imagine the scene!

How was I saved from acute embarrassment? Well, it was a chicken who saved me. A chicken suddenly ran through the kitchen—I was in a farm kitchen telling a story to three beautiful women and they were actually looking at me and listening to my story attentively, so I was incredibly stressed about impressing all three of them at the same time (because who knows what might happen later after a long day of harvesting kale with Beatrice or washing lettuce with Silvia in the barn; I can’t remember the other girls’ name), but I had muddled the whole thing and my romantic future with all three of these women was dead, just dead.

Suddenly, into this dramatic scene—imagine it in your mind’s eye, dear reader—into this scene of me telling a story and three beautiful women spellbound by my every word, into this scene squawks a chicken!

I screamed of course, and one of the women (the one whose name I can’t remember) grabbed the chicken, flipped it upside down, and cut off its head with a kitchen knife. Clean off. Just like that. I almost fainted. The blood was so, so red. And, gosh, the woman she was so dexterous. Very strong hands. She just held the limp, dead chicken carcass over the sink and asked her friend to get some water boiling. You dip the carcass into boiling water to quickly remove the feathers.

Beatrice had such lovely breasts. I know that her breasts have nothing to do with my story, but I have to mention them. Not that I ever saw them, of course, but I imagined her naked breasts every time we harvested kale together, so I feel that, within reason, I know them well. I’ve always practiced medication and I firmly believe that what we imagine we create, and I tried it with her breasts, but I could never create a night of passion between Beatrice and myself no matter how often I watched her while she harvested the kale.

I didn’t work at the farm very long. One of the girls, the one whose name I don’t remember, started screaming whenever she saw a bug, a fleck of mud, or anything. All the girls would laugh. It took me a while to realize they were laughing at me, but, once I realized, I couldn’t stay at that farm.

Why was I telling that story about the chicken? Oh, yeah, I remember now… Okay, are you ready to start hearing me start telling you the story now?

Published by Mink

The amazing writer, husband, father, traveler, and in general a uniquely amazing person named Jared Mink.

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