Well, Yeah XXIII

So what if I struggle for no reward? Nobody really understands why I do it, and they fail to see that the reward is the act itself! It would take a fool to get up one morning and say “you know, I think I’ll be a chicken wrestler” like they’ll just own the world and brush us all off like dandruff. First of all, they have to catch their own fowl. Nobody tells you that little tidbit in the Chicken Wrestling Handbook. Every sparring match with a neighborhood bird has to be earned through sweat and blood. Back before computers, we had to go out and find our own birds! Can you imagine that? Nowadays, everybody just hops on the ebays and buys a chicken from thin air. Hogwash, they’re not real wrestlers! They’re cheap scam artists who won’t get an ounce of satisfaction from ambushing a clueless chicken in a box with air holes. Of course if you knew all this, I wouldn’t have to lecture you on the subject. But no, you seem to think that my passion is all just a big fat joke. Keep laughing, pretty boy. Just wait until we all have to help wrangle the loose chickens in our co-ops after we fritter away all our hard-earned electricity. It was my parents’ generation that put us on the map, and your generation is stomping all over that same hand-drawn masterpiece of a society. Hogwash. None of you are real wrestlers. Get out of my way, it’s time for my popsicle.


Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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