Woohoo: Beer-butt chicken
I’m barrelin’ home to small town B.C. fer the holidays, and as dat dere Greyhound hauls itself into the mountains, them good ol’ memories come rushin’ back. I’m chuggin’ back beers with my buds in overalls – I’ve worn ‘em last two weeks. I’m smackin’ ol’ Bessie on the rear to giddyup through the drive-thru to get me my nuggets. I’m leakin’ out my name in the snow, only the “d” came out lookin’ like a “b.” I’m hollerin’ at that dumbass truck driver who’s drivin’ like granny on the roundabout. But my fondest memories would hafta be fillin’ my belly with good ol’ beer-butt chicken.
Each Christmas, Dad snaps the head off a fresh clucker (last year it was Crazy Sheila!) and plucks ‘er right naked. Mom fires up the oven to 375. She whips some garlic, paprika, coriander, and oil in a tin, and massages that chicken the way she hollers Dad never could. Then she opens a piss-warm can o’ Budweiser, stretches open that clucker, and shoves it up the badonk!
An hour later Crazy Sheila comes sizzling out o’ the oven, right as rain, golden brown, tender ‘n juicy, birthin’ a can o’ the best drink this here side o’ the mountains. As we stuff ourselves on chicken, we says, “holy moly Crazy Sheila, yer makin’ me all drowsy like! That Bud did you somethin’ special!” The supper table nods and belches, and we grin and toast to stuffin’ next year’s chicken with Molson instead.
Boohoo: Bare-butt chicken
Christmas comes ‘n goes, and then we’re gearin and beerin’ up fer the biggest celebration this here side o’ the darn border! And each New Year’s eve, me and the boys chug back a few cold ones to soften us up, then we play the new year’s game o’ “Snow Tushie.” Yup, ya heard that right, sorry ma.
Snow Tushie’s a chance to show that we’re ready fer the new year, a chance to toughen us up like. S’pretty simple — we pull down our johnnies and sit down bare-ass in the snow fer two whole minutes! Not that tough; I do it every year no sweat. Though there’s always that little wimp who ain’t got the nards to stick his crack in a snowpile fer long, before he yelps and leaps with eyes bulgin’, cheeks clenchin’ tight, then whimperin’ like.
Last year it was Jimmy; the year before it was Fred. This year, while we whooped and hollered, Pat was squattin’ and squealin’ like little Daisy down the street! He only made it to one minute n’ 45.
Jeezus, Pat! If you can’t wiggle that bony patootie in the darn snow for just two minutes, then you better grow a pair o’ low-hangers an’ prove yerself next year cause I ain’t got no time fer this horse pucky!
What a bare-butt chicken. Here’s to a better 2016!
