Fat Chick: “Where on earth did SHE come from?”
Me: “My son Bobby saw her in Kansas City and thought you might be related.”
Fat Chick: “Why on earth would he think that? She’s fat and yellow and, and, and…Oh. She does sort of look like me doesn’t she?”
Me: “Yes, except you can actually see her face. She’s looking up. You’re always looking down Fat Chick. Why is that?”
Fat Chick: “Well, I’m usually reading, or eating, or reading, or eating, or reading…well, you get the picture.”
Me: “Yes, I’m getting the picture. I’m sure that’s why your name is Fat Chick, right?”
Fat Chick: “At least I don’t have my beak stuck up in the air. It’s not like she’s got that much to be proud of. After all, she’s just a yellow ceramic chicken. There’s nothing at all special about that!”
Me: “I can’t believe you just said that. You’re such a stupid bird. No wonder if all you do is read and eat.”
Fat Chick: “I wouldn’t point fingers if I were you. After all, I’m YOUR alter ego!”
