This year I had a birthday. Technically I have them every year, but this year was special. I got a present. By mail. At my super secret secure mailbox that I only see once every week or so.
I was warned on Monday to go pick up my birthday present. I planned to do so Tuesday. I almost went on Wednesday. I had good intentions Thursday. Finally went on Friday.
Too eager to drive home, I started opening the box right there. While struggling with the tape I noticed a smell in the mail shop. I asked if anybody was having fish for lunch. Nope. Nobody.
So I resumed opening the box. I managed to penetrate the side and get a flap open. Simultaneously, I detected a stronger fish smell. "Are you sure nobody has fish in the microwave?" Nope. Nobody.
Then I got the box open. The smell became a stench and I stopped believing in coincidence.
My gaze rested upon a fluffy stuffed chicken toy with matted fluff, a few scattered tissues, a messy birthday card, and a golden egg. Actually the egg was not gold. Nor was it intact. Nor was it fresh.
A woman walked into the mail shop and stopped in her tracks. I looked up, eyes watering, and said "Sorry. It was me." She turned and left.
The patient proprietor evacuated the shop, and my present. Together we moved the exploded egg, fetid fowl, and cruddy card to a trash bag.
As I prepared to discard the chicken I noticed a "Press Me" spot on the foot. I pressed the foot and the chicken crowed "Cock-a-doodle-doo."
Yes, for my birthday I got a rooster that laid a rotten golden egg.
Update: Doctor Dolittle gave me a better birthday present.
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