THE CHICKEN AND THE FLOOD
Your chicken does not possess a sense of humor.
He is steadfast and true, he is trusty and brave, and he voted for Calvin Coolidge and attended the special chicken university over in Huntsville where he studied agronomy, which combines elements of agriculture and astronomy and is (or so we're told) some complex, hard on the brain shit.
But do not tell the chicken a joke and expect him to laugh.
Your average chicken is a pecker at the earth, he likes to peck at the earth and he's an accomplished pecker at the earth. He spends most of his time pecking at the earth. So that, and this is just a theory mind you, he doesn't find too many things funny. Your peckers at the earth tend to be solemn types, life is not just shit and giggles to them, they look gravely to the earth and peck gravely at the earth and there's not much there to laugh at so far as they can see, you will never find a chicken chuckling to himself like a chunk-cheeked morning egg man over the funny pages.
Your chicken drives a 1932 Ford coupe and doesn't hightail it around the corners but always drives the speed limit, your chicken is a law-abiding citizen who attends church (Methodist usually) on Sunday in his Sunday best which is humble but always creek-washed and starched, it began to rain that Monday and by Thursday all the roads were flooded and the bridges swept away, you had cows lowing on the roofs of floating barns and a fat man in a tree with swear to god a live billy goat in his arms, and the water at his ankles gushing and sluicing by, and a bent brown busted brim hat on his head, and we'd have gladly talked more about chickens and their lack of a sense of humor but the flood come, with heartbreak in its wake, and guess what?
Now nobody's laughing.