As always, I welcomed two celebrities with a vague connection to join me on the front porch of The House on the Hill. They get to ask each other one question, and I sit between them, look handsome, and enjoy their conversation.
My interns had exams today, so tonight’s guests weren’t as carefully screened as usual. This Modern Philosopher/Host was, therefore, put into harm’s way and the interns’ reviews will definitely include a long passage about tonight’s ugly incident.
After all that build up, are you ready to meet tonight’s guest? Come right on up and find a place to sit on the lawn. Let’s have a nice Maine greeting for Colonel Sanders and The San Diego Chicken!
This was the first time that my guests needed to be escorted onto the porch to keep them from attacking each other. Colonel Sanders certainly was not displaying the expected Southern charm, and the Chicken was being fowler (HA!) than I thought possible.
“Why? Just tell me that,” he demanded angrily. “How could you build an empire on chicken bones and bloody feathers? Can you even answer me, you old fart?”
I offered both parties a Snapple in an attempt to defuse the situation, but neither party even looked at me. Their eyes were locked in an intense stare down.
I jokingly scolded The Chicken for asking two more questions than allowed, but he wasn’t paying attention to me. I chugged my Snapple and prayed for the best.
Colonel Sanders tightened his grip on his walking stick, and rather than answer his adversary’s question, launched into one of his own.
“How long do you reckon it would take me to pluck ya, gut ya, cover ya with herbs and spices, and deep fry ya so I can serve y’all finger lickin’ good to this wonderful crowd who came here tonight to be entertained and not lectured by ya on the morality of providing a wholesome meal at a reasonable price? Answer that, Chicken Little!”
It happened so quickly. My toga was covered in feathers and there was an unreasonable amount of cursing, moaning, and groaning coming from my right.
My guests rolled around on the floor. The San Diego Chicken was throwing punches faster and harder than Mike Tyson ever did in his ear biting days.
Colonel Sanders was wielding his walking stick like a lethal weapon, and acting like The Chicken was the world’s largest pinata and he was a Southern Gentleman with a wicked sweet tooth.
The interns finally managed to separate them. On the front lawn, however, the chaos continued. Sandy Eggans (The Chicken’s groupies) were going at it with the Colonel’s Crew while stunned Modern Philosophers watched in horror.
I finally had to whistle for Gary the Gargoyle to swoop down onto the lawn from the roof to restore order. No one was passionate enough about the chicken issue to dare mess with a pissed off, stone faced Gargoyle.
Wow! What a night. We might have to take a few nights off to recover from this one. Someone better be here in the morning to work on my lawn. That’s it for now. I’m sure we’ll do this again soon…after I get some new interns!