Beercan Chicken

We sent the self-validating book into our publishers.

Now they can stop threatening to sue us for that $100 advance. I need smokes.

On Friday, at noon, three fingers pressed down on the mouse to hit send: mine, the Fry Cook's, and Ugly Fat Kid's. I'm sure The Fry Cook had no idea what he was doing, but I did. I fired off our self-validating "cookbook" to our editor, all the recipes, asian massage techniques from the parlor in town, dirty jokes, and hard-on pictures (Fry Cook's, to be precise). Those fuckers should get a kick out of that. Or not.

We're proud of it, even though it will need editing and de-plagiarizing. (It took me years of writing to realize that I was actually just retyping random paragraphs from Woman's Weekly, and a tough editor with a red pen is a gift indeed.)
I do not want to see it in print, with the gross photographs, even though it won't be published in English until spring of 2010. They Germans like that weird shit and want it first. Hey, money talks!

This damn "cookbook" took me 9 months. That's like havin' two preemie, crack-addicted babies! We had Ugly Fat Kid in the midst of it and sometimes wrote in the middle of the night when she woke up at 3 in the morning and we were too drunk to go to sleep for an hour. And the last three weeks, I have been living on the computer for nine hours a day, trying to chat while Ugly Fat Kid was asleep, but usually just turning my back on her while she played with her papa (he was out of the pen on furlough and The Fry Cook was on a fishing trip).
It seemed, at times, that I would never finish that damn book. But I did with the help of Cliff's Notes. Whoo hoo!

We did it. We did it again in the laundry room.

We had beercan chicken for dinner on Monday evening.

I never seen that Yankee movie, Annie Hall, but from what I understand, two nerds get naked, get high, and eat some lobsters. Well, that shit is too expensive, so we made some beer can chicken with a can of Bud and one them escaped feral chickens that wander around the smoking area at the processing plan eating butts. I told The Fry Cook to grab the damn loud one. If we're gonna kill one of them sonsabitches dead, we might as well get some quiet out of the deal. Anywho...

On Friday afternoon, with Ugly Fat Kid bouncing in her seat in the kitchen, I grabbed my camera as the Fry Cook pulled the live chicken out from under a bucket. Oh, we took a few funny photos, with him hanging that dirty bird by its feet, raising the talons to his lips, rubbin' on it in a way that ain't wholesome, you get the point.

So I thanked the chicken and Jesus before we ate him (the chicken, not Jesus). And I remembered again how funny life is — killin' and eatin' all mixed up together, side by side, for free, all the more a little spicy for the nicotine in that bird.

And then we fell into bed. Smellin' of beer and cigs. Oh lord, we are tired. But rednecked as hell.

Now, we'd like to know. What do you kill when you truly want to celebrate? And if it's chicken, what other kinds of weird stuff do you do with it?