Party Fowl

So, my mom just retired after being a teacher for 42 years. On her last day of school, my sisters and I decided it would be fun to send her a singing telegram. We decided a singing yellow chicken would be appropriate.

The plan was to have the chicken come into her 7th grade class at the very end of their exam and surprise her.

Unfortunately, he thought the school was on East Flamingo road, not West Flamingo Road, and he ended up lost and confused, and the class ended without a chanting chicken. My sister Brooke found out that my mom was going out to lunch with her teacher friends, and so frantically called the chicken and asked him to go to the restaurant. The chicken agreed.
Brooke also went to the restaurant, and told the chicken on the phone to come in and look for her, a blonde girl in a black sweater with a red-headed little girl.

The chicken walks in, carrying a huge bouquet of “Happy Birthday” balloons. Brooke sees him and waves, but he doesn’t see her, and walks straight for a big table of people, who are all in business-wear having a meeting. He starts circling the table right next to them, clucking and saying “Whoooos birthday is it?”, and individually choosing people and asking them if it is their (cluck cluck) birthday. After circling a few times, someone says, dryly, “Buddy, I think you have the wrong table.”

The chicken then proceeds to drop to the ground and hide under their table, where he pulls out a piece of paper and reads it. He then jumps back up and starts yelling, “Is there an Adrienne here?” My mom responds, “Well, my name is Adrienne, but its not me. Its not my birthday”. And Brooke covertly gives the chicken the thumbs up.

The chicken comes over and says, “Well, I hear it’s your 42nd birthday!! Happy Birthday!!” My mom is 62.

My sister goes, “She’s retiring. 42 years of teaching”. So the chicken sings “Happy Retirement to you, happy retirement to you, happy retirement to Andrea, happy retirement to you.” Gives my mom the Happy Birthday Balloons, and sprints out.

No matter how much we hate our lives, at least we aren’t bad singing telegram chickens.