When I was dressed up as a pirate for the opening day showing of Pirates of the Caribbean in Springfield (erm, don't ask too many questions about why I was dressed up as a pirate for the opening day screening of Pirates of the Caribbean -- it's probably best not to know), I was invited to a Renaissance Faire for the next day.
Since I'd been invited while I was in pirate garb, I figured I'd better go to the Faire in pirate garb, too. The only problem was that I'd gone to Pirates of the Caribbean with a Captain Jack Sparrow bobblehead. This obviously wasn't going to work for the Ren Faire. I needed a replacement.
I began to wonder: okay, what would a scurvy pirate be carrying around an Elizabethan marketplace? A cutlass? Possibly, but that might result in my arrest (especially if I was pulled over for speeding or something on my way there). Also, I didn't have a cutlass. No time to buy one, either.
What else, then?
Perhaps a pirate wench. Excellent! I could carry around a pirate wench. Unfortunately, I couldn't find one. Or rather, all the candidates seemed to be able to run faster than I could. I moved on to possibility number three. What would a scurvy, unsavory, pirate fellow carry around an Elizabethan marketplace? It was obvious.
A chicken.
Said pirate could eat the chicken, if need be. Or trade the chicken for pirate-y jewelry. Or rent out the chicken for odd theatrical productions. Or sell rides on the chicken to children.
Chickens are very versatile, that way.
So I set out to find a chicken to take to the Faire with me. I immediately discarded the idea of buying a real chicken. Although it would be funny (and I could eat it later), I wasn't sure what the Faire's policy on pets was, and I really didn't want a chicken running loose in my car, either.
That left whole chickens from the poultry section of the local grocery store (not a good idea given that the day was a bit warm and I wouldn't, as an Elizabethan pirate, have access to modern refrigeration), or an age-old standby:
The rubber chicken.
The rubber chicken has all the advantages of a real chicken (erm, actually a real chicken doesn't have that many advantages, so the rubber chicken doesn't have to work too hard to measure up) except being able to be eaten. Plus, it wouldn't be covered in e. coli bacteria at the end of the day.
I popped into a local party supply store and nosed around the aisles for a while, but I couldn't find where they kept the rubber chickens. I began to despair. So, going against all my instincts, I went up to the front counter and asked.
"Can I help you?" the guy behind the register asked.
"Umm, this is going to sound a bit strange, but I'm rather in need of a, erm, rubber chicken."
"Aisle seven, with the Halloween supplies."
"Oh, excellent."
And there he was -- the perfect rubber chicken. I decided to name him "Petey." Petey and I went to the Faire, and though he started out being dragged along by the neck and almost traded for craft goods, he soon moved to my shoulder and became "Petey, the Rubber Chicken Who Thought He Was a Parrot."
Next, I'm going to put blue shorts and a red cape on him and go see Superman Returns.
Unless I can find some pirate wench who will dress up as Lois Lane.
You may send fan mail to Petey care of this blog.
