The Ballad of Shakira

Ok, it has taken me some time to get over a somewhat traumatic situation that occurred, but I think I can get through it now without tearing up. It should be noted that the perpetrators of the horrible crime still have not been apprehended, but if I ever find out who caused me such worry and heartache, I shall make their lives a living hell, and I totally mean it. Paybacks are a bitch.

So I shall start at the beginning. I am in LOVE with the writings of a woman living in Texas known as The Bloggess. The first time I read her hilarious online column, it was a particular blog about a big metal chicken that she purchased in what I can only assume was a Homegoods store (the only place that would sell big metal chickens, or so I thought.) It made me want a big metal chicken of my very own. She named her big metal chicken Beyonce. I would name mine Shakira, keeping with the musical theme names. She tortured her husband Victor with this ginormous big metal chicken. I could see it adding a whole other dimension to my relationship with Bill.

The Friday after Thanksgiving my friends, Sherrel and Rich, left with me on what can only be described as a road/field trip to hunt down the perfect big metal chicken. I had seen an antique store in Lucketts, Virginia with literally hundreds of metal chickens, even one as tall as a house, but I didn’t have time to stop and look around. It was perfect thing to do on a bright sunny day. We decided to leave before we started drinking, probably a wise decision. And our road trip was indeed fruitful. Sherrel and I both purchased a metal chicken. While not as large as I had hoped, my metal chicken was completely adorable at about 18 inches tall. (Sherrel's was much smaller, more of a baby metal chicken. She named hers JayZ by the way.) So $36 later, Shakira was sitting in the back seat of Sherrel’s jeep, happily looking out the window. We went directly to one of our local watering holes, Shakira in tow, and ordered some wine (and a beer for Rich.) Shakira sat on the bar, and was the STAR. She’s a very social chicken.

I took her home so I could show Bill my chicken score. Funny, he wasn’t as excited about it as I was, nor did he find the hilarity of the situation of owning a metal chicken. I let him read the Bloggess’s blog about her Big Metal Chicken…still nothing. I would not be deterred. I put Shakira on the front steps of our house so I could show her off to the entire town of Manassas. Everyone would be so jealous, I just knew it.

The next day, I patted Shakira on the head as I walked out the door and went shopping. Upon my return, Shakira was GONE. A ransom note was wedged in the door, stating that Shakira had been kidnapped, instructions for payment of the ransom would follow. Damn my friends. Heads would roll for sure. I paid 36 bucks for that damn chicken. This wasn’t funny. Ok, it was mildly funny.

That night, I grilled them all over drinks. No one knew anything, and they all lamented about Shakira’s disappearance. The next thing I knew, Jackie, our server, came over with a POSTER SIZE board with cut out letters:

“We have your cock in our custody. We demand one million chicken feathers and a lifetime supply of wine. If you don’t meet our demands, the cock dies a terrible death. Hopefully this will teach you not to go around Old Town bragging about your cock. Good-bye Bitch. The Farmer.”

Note, there were three photos of Shakira at the bottom of the poster – one of her in an oven, one in a dumpster, and one of her with a noose around her neck hanging from someone’s porch. Shit, the porch was unidentifiable. I looked for other clues in the phots...nothing. Damn, these kidnappers were good.

My first thought was, who the hell has time to put this much effort into fucking with me? My next thought was, crap, it’s going to take a while to get my $36 chicken back.

Two days later, as I was leaving for work, I found a KFC bucket with another ransom note and some metal pieces in it. The note instructed me to go to the local SERVE food donation center and leave the wine. The feathers were to be left at the Habitat for Humanity store. Receipts should be placed in the bucket and left on the steps. Fucking great. Now I have to go make a food donation (the food bank obviously wasn’t going to take the wine) and a furniture donation in order to get blank receipts so I could get my $36 metal chicken back. I considered driving back to Lucketts and buying another chicken.

I was having trouble finding the time to get to either location to make donations and collect receipts. I would do it Saturday. That damn chicken better come back in one piece, that’s for sure, or someone was going to pay for that chicken in flesh.

Saturday was the Manassas City Christmas Day Parade. Everyone met at my house heading a few blocks into Old Town for the parade. We stopped at one of the local restaurants for some breakfast. As we sat down, suddenly my friend Bruce walked over and handed me - you guessed it - SHAKIRA. He said she was left at the front door when he arrived early that morning. I was elated. I was also slightly pissed that someone would leave her at the front door at the risk of being stolen again. But she was there, right before my eyes, and sporting a new red feather boa, an elf hat, and holding a small leopard purse in her beak. In the purse was note detailing Shakira’s adventures with the Farmer and his lovely wife. (Seriously, who the hell has time to even come up with this stuff???) Also attached to the note was a $20 bill for a round of shots. Beautiful. The farmer knows my love for a yummy cocktail.

Now Shakira is relaxing next to our Christmas tree, in her festive holiday outfit. I will never leave her outside again. I love that cock.

So the moral of the story is if you don’t want someone messing with your cock, best to keep it someplace safe.

the end.