"What's that," my wide-eyed son asks just as I begin to disjoint a whole-bodied fryer."
"A chicken."
"A chicken, like the Little Red Hen?"
"Well, not exactly. This chicken didn't know how to bake bread, so it couldn't possibly be the Little Red Hen."
"Then, why is it bleeding?"
"Because it's dead."
"Did you murder it?"
"No, the butcher killed it."
"Killed it like on television shows? Did he blow its brains out with a big black gun?"
"I don't think so."
"How about a hand grenade?"
"Not hardly."
"Then how? How did he murder it?"
"He probably chopped its head off."
"That's why it doesn't have a head?"
"That's why."
"What about its feet. Where did the Little Red Hen's feet go?"
"I tell you it's not the Little Red Hen. This chicken was probably white."
"How do you know? Its feathers are all gone. Where did its feathers go?"
"I don't know. Maybe in some pillow."
"You mean the Little Red Hen's feathers are in my pillow?"
"No, your pillow is made of foam."
"But you and Dad have feather pillows. If you've got the feathers, no wonder the Little Red Hen has goose pimples on its skin!"
"This chicken does not have goose pimples."
"Chicken pimples?"
"No pimples. I tell you this chicken is dead."
"So, what are you doing with the dead chicken now?"
"Dipping it in flour."
"Won't that clog its pores?"
"Do you really think this chicken cares?"
"I guess not. But what are you doing now?"
"Frying the chicken."
"Frying it? Is that what smells so good?"
"That's what you smell."
"Yum! I like the way it smells... Mom?"
"Now what?"
"I think when I get done with my first piece of the Little Red Hen, I'm going to want seconds."
"Good. If you want seconds, you can have my firsts. Somehow, I don't feel hungry anymore!"
