I went to the chicken-naming party. Like old time Chicago, there was a great abundance of voter fraud, wheeling and dealing for personal chicken-name nomination, gerrymandering and a general sense of raucous bad voter faith. Complete with the freezing mist and (unfortunately un-spiked) hot chocolate, I felt like I had been transported to a windy city far, far away. For god's sake, my name (L'eggs "Boom Boom" McKlukski, a classic old Chicago gangster moll name, completely appropriate for the occasion) only got two votes, while I listened to my competition swap votes for the utterly boring "Sandy." I mean, really! It was a complete travesty of justice.
But had my husband been alert enough to come with me, we would have been shoe-ins with his personal choice: "Anne Poulter." Fie on you, sleepy husband. FIE!*
No-one came up with good chicken puns but me and someone else who won handily with "Gwyneth Poultry."
People. People given the choice between crazy brilliance and safe mediocrity will choose the latter.
*My husband reminded me that Anne Poulter would of course be a right-winged chicken.