Thursday, December 23, 2010

Jesus would want you to save the chickens.

I got this email from a friend of mine who is a smoke jumper that lives in Montana with her husband.  I laughed so hard that wasabi came out of my nose.  Then I called her later and asked if I could post it here, to share with all of you.  I think it is clear why we are friends.

I'll call this "A Christmas Story from Montana"
So we went to cut down a Christmas tree this weekend on the forest land about 2 miles from the house.  We found a perfect Christmas tree. . . and a fucking box of CHICKENS that someone had dumped in the woods.  The box had fallen apart and the chickens were not thriving in the Montana snow.  One walked up to me, so I picked it up- which was probably the wrong thing to do, because it made me and Tim realize that we could catch them and save them from a slow and certain death.  I could only fit one under each arm, and the dogs were going crazy because they wanted to eat them sooooooooo bad and usually they are allowed to eat things that live in the woods if they can catch it.  Tim threw the tree on top of the car and just balanced it there, and loaded me in the passenger seat with a chicken under each arm.  The tree was so bushy that we were trying to look between branches to see out the windshield. We went to our neighbor across the street because she has LOTS of chickens, and although she was speechless about the spectacle we created in her driveway, she said she would take them in order to relieve our conscience.  Since we now felt responsible for the future of the rest of the chickens, we unloaded the tree and the dogs,  loaded up a big plastic crate and LOTS of beer, and spent the next hour until it got dark drinking beer and chasing chickens in knee deep snow.  Gotta Love Montana.  I just wanted a tree- not to make decisions about my responsibility for the fate of the food chain.  In the end we got 6 chickens, and 3 or 4 were too wily to wrangle before dark- being dumb and panicked really gets you now where in the end (I will have to remember that next time I jump out of an airplane into a forest fire).  When you attempt to celebrate the birth of the tiny baby Jesus and find yourself drunk on PBR and chasing chickens through the woods, it really makes you think about where you are at in life. . .
At one point (while laying face-down in the snow after a near miss on a chicken) I said, why can't we just drink and set up a fucking Christmas village like Brock and Johi!

I then replied with this email (it is short because I was probably holding Thing 2 on my lap and fending off Thing 1):
OMG!  That is some funny stuff!
One question.... why PBR?  lmao!
We can't wait to see you!

She responded:
Why PBR? It was the most WT beer we could think of, and I guess chasing chickens for Christmas spirit made us feel like celebrating our inner redneck! 

I have honestly never heard a better Christmas tree hunting story in my life.

Merry Christmas and Save the Chickens!

1 comment:

  1. Amazing.
    Nothing says Merry Christmas like a box'o'chickens.