*EDITOR’S NOTE: This piece was written by a writer at The Banana Peel that, without our knowledge, had taken an unhealthy amount of mushrooms at the time of it’s creation and then proceeded to publish without our review. If it had been reviewed like all other content, we would not have posted it but instead submitted the piece to a nearby insane asylum as physical proof for why said writer should be admitted as a patient. So please, read at your own discretion, and kids, don’t do drugs…unless someone pressures you to…then do 2x what they do to establish dominance.
Dale was a good egg, or at least that’s what his mom told him before he hatched, so it’s unclear whether she was being nice or just very literal. Either way, he knew he had made a mistake.
You see, a few hours earlier, after an argument with his wife, Dale stormed out of his coop and went down to the local Chili’s off Route 6, where he drowned his marital woes in sugary margaritas and affordable apps. He couldn’t even remember what the fight was about; all he knew was it was entirely his fault. So as the garlic parmesan wings landed in front of him, he realized he had to make things right…after he finished eating them.
But after indulging in a few pieces, eyes around the restaurant began converging on him. Was it something he did? Or said? Or perhaps it was his swastika tattoo gracing his left arm? No, wait, he was wearing long sleeves, so it couldn’t be that. He called the waitress over and asked for an explanation, and she very softly gestured to his plate. Shit. Dale realized what had happened.
The restaurant full of humans had clocked him, a chicken, enjoying a plate full of well, himself. AKA cannibalism. Something their species wasn’t too fond of. Dale stood up and very calmly gathered the attention of the Chili’s. He explained the misunderstanding and noted that in the chicken community, eating chicken under most circumstances isn’t considered taboo at all, but rather quite common. They often prefer for chickens to consume their own species, as opposed to humans, so if anything, he was being considerate. The humans were understanding and appreciative of Dale’s articulation and willingness to take the time to explain his cultural nuances. Chili’s even offered to comp Dale’s tab for the inconvenience, but he insisted he pay.
As Dale made his way out of the restaurant, belly full and proud of himself for clearing up the misunderstanding, there stood his wife in the doorway, tears streaming down her face. And that’s when it hit him why they had been arguing earlier. Dale had cheated on his wife, and she was not particularly happy about it. Not to mention, it certainly didn’t help that when she confronted him earlier, instead of talking it out, he left to go to Chili’s and forgot all about it.
In the Chili’s parking lot, as rain poured down, Dale chased after her, trying to explain that he only cheated because he wanted to, and he only went to Chili’s because he was yearning for a perfect mixture of good food, drinks and ambience. But it was no use; if this were chicken baseball, he would have 3 strikes. Dale’s wife told him it was over and not to bother returning to the coop as she began walking to her car amidst oncoming traffic.
It only took a few seconds until a car came speeding by, hitting and killing her immediately. Dale was in shock. Seeing her lifeless, chicken body lying there. And so, to tend to his former life partner as she drifted into Chicken Heaven or Hell (she was the one who convinced Dale to get a swastika tattoo), Dale…crossed the road.
The End.
The Banana Peel 