One sunny day in the suburb of Suburb Manor, Mike the talking chicken was over at the house of his beer-drinking buddy and next-door neighbor Bill Peterson. He wanted to borrow Bill's leaf blower so that he could blow some newly-fallen snow off of his driveway. Mike interrupted Bill cooking dinner, but Bill, being the amiable guy he was, didn't mind.

"Hey ya know, Mike," Bill said as began dipping some drumsticks in his egg batter, "it's purpose is really to blow leaves, but you know what? I guess if the snow is dry enough it could blow the snow just as well."

"See, that's what I was thinking," Mike said. He sniffed the air, noticing how nice the sweet, spicy, and savory aroma of whatever Bill was already cooking in the fryer.

"Hey that smells good, Bill," Mike said, "what ya cookin' there?"

"Oh, I'm frying up some chicken," Bill said.

"You're frying up some what?!" Mike the talking chicken said. He flapped up onto a nearby chair so that he could see what Bill was doing.

"Yeah, my wife says I make the best fried chicken!" Bill said. "It's one of the few meals she let's me cook."

"You're... you're going to eat a chicken?!" Mike said, his voice becoming shrill.

"Oh come on, Mike, don't be all like that," Bill said, "I know you're a chicken, too, but you probably didn't know this chicken."

"But, but it's a chicken!" Mike said. His eyes were wide with fear. He looked over at the plate full of raw chicken parts and gasped loudly to where it nearly sounded like a dog's bark.

"Oh, Mike, Mike, Mike," Bill said as he threw a leg into the fryer, the oil immediately sizzling up as he did so, "you know I'd never eat you or your wife, or scramble the eggs she just laid for my batter."

"Scramble the WHAT for your WHAT?!" Mike said.

"My batter," Bill said, pointing to the bowl of yellowish goo, "it's made with scrambled chicken eggs."

"So, let me get this straight," Mike said, his voice still shrill and trembling, "you're frying a chicken, and scrambled chicken embryos are in the batter?!"

"Well, of course, the eggs help the flour stick--"

"Frying a chicken in more, unborn chickens! I've NEVER been more disturbed in my life! You are sick, Bill, SICK! Is this even legal?!"

"Dude, calm down, of course it is," Bill said as he rolled a thigh in his flour and spices mixture, "lots of us humans eat fried chicken. It's one of America's favorite meals. Surely you're heard of Kentucky Fried Chicken, the fast food restaurant!"

"No!" Mike said. "I've been to McDonald's, Hardee's, Burger King, KFC--"

"Dude, KFC is Kentucky Fried Chicken," Bill said. "You know, K. (Kentucky) F. (Fried)...

Mike and the chair he was standing on began to tremble. "K... F... C.... is... is..."

"Fried chicken!" Bill said. "You didn't know that?"

"I'M A CANNIBAL!" shouted Mike. "Oh dear god! I've eaten CHICKEN! And the worst part is... I LOVED IT!"

Bill sighed. "Look, Mike, it's perfectly OK..."

"How'd you like it if you found out humans were being routinely fried up and eaten and that YOU'VE EATEN THEM?!"

"Well I'd probably be upset," Bill said, "but look, look, look, dude, look at it this way, man: you're a talking chicken. You and your wife, you're almost like a different species. No other chickens can talk, were mutated by that nuclear waste from the power plant. So in a way, since you weren't eating other talking chickens, you weren't really being a cannibal... well, not really. It's like they're a different animal, y'know?"

Mike was still shivering. "Like... a... different... animal?"

"Sure, sure!" Bill said. "See? Don't worry about it. A totally different species. In fact the scientists should officially reclassify you, I think. Maybe call you something other than a chicken. Like... let's see... talking chicken..." Bill paused a second to think. "...a ticken! No, wait... that doesn't work... a... um... talken! No, wait... a chalk-- no, hmm..."

"So... so you really think it's OK, Bill?" Mike said. He was still trembling but leaning closer, enjoying the aroma despite himself. "I mean... KFC... it... it's my favorite."

"Yes!" Bill said. "Don't worry about it! Those chickens we eat, they aren't smart like you. Nobody would want to eat you. I mean, you'd be too gamey. I see you at the gym all the time, workin out. You'd be too tough anyway."

"Well, yeah," Mike said. "That's a good point."

"In fact you should stay for dinner!" Bill said. "You should try some of mine. I think I can give the ol' Colonel a run for his money!"

"That's OK, no, I don't think I should eat chickens anymore," Mike said, "besides, me and my wife already ordered some delivery hot wings from Wing Street. We looooove hot wings! I wouldn't want to miss that!"

Bill looked at his neighbor. "Umm... Mike..."

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