By Terence D’Costa. Terry is a great, dear friend, and a top notch CD in the Himalayas.
Manager: Now just to give you an idea of what we’re planning to do… (matter of fact, to the point)
Chicken : Yes, I’m completely new to all this… I have no idea really.. (bashful)
Manager : There’s this big bash coming up and the theme for dinner is exotic fowl. (stoic, stress on the last word)
Chicken: Exotic fowl… (momentarily groping for a semblance of sense)
Chef : We’re planning on doing a Chicken a’la Kiev with a twist of thyme. (pride spilleth, brimmeth, gusheth)
Chicken : Oh ok… nice. (giggles, with no idea why)
Manager : Yes, and the sponsor wants you to star in it. (in a true bearer of happy tidings tone)
Chicken : Excuse me? (stumbling)

Chef : We’ll be deboning your breast and… (purposeful)
Chicken : Um… I’ve never done this before… (vague ”what am I doing here” worry peeping on the horizon)
Chef : And stuffing it with butter balls… (slow, deliberate)
Chicken : Umm… like I said, I… (”what the hell am I doing here!” taking over)
Chef : We beat the breast with a mallet first… (overdosed on experience)
Chicken : Beat it? (shocked but desperate not to appear hysterical)
Chef : Yes, do you have a problem with mallets? (jaded)
Chicken : No, I er… (lungs collapsing now)
Chef : Hang on, let the art director examine you first… (a ”can we get this over with” tone coming through)
Chicken : Hello… (on the verge of terminal shutdown now)
Sous Chef : Hi. Ok, here’s what we do… we fold your breast over and roll it in fine flour. (the facts, the facts !)
Chicken : Umm, ok… one sec… one sec… (adrenaline squeezing past the jugular)
Manager : We’re planning to cook next week, by the way. (urgency type A)
Chicken : Next week ? I’m leaving the barn next week… (relieved in a weird sort of way)
Manager : No way, we have to cook you next week! (malfunction alert)
Chicken : And I won’t be back till next month… (escape seeming a bit more likely)
Manager : Uh oh… (contemplating self-destruct)
Chicken : What is all this about… actually? (the truth be told)
Sous Chef : Chicken a’la Kiev with a twist of thyme. (what else did you expect)
Chicken : I know, but the a’la Kiev can come later… I really need to know what… (let’s not go there again)
Chef : You’re doing here ? (OMG)
Chicken : Yes… (duhh!)
Chef : Oh my…you mean to say they haven’t told you? (de ja vu)
Chicken : No they haven’t really…I just got a call last evening from this lady… (lamb-like innocence)
Manager : The sponsor. (can we get to the point please)
Chicken : Yes.. she said I need to come and meet you about… (bleating)
Chef : Right, and she didn’t mention why… (LMAO)
Chicken : Not really…no. (may I leave now?)

Willy’s Moral : There’s no such thing as too much of a good thing.
Confucian Moral : Fine print on Pageant Contract always smaller than jewels on Sponsored Crown.
Yoda’s Moral : When pageant is over, feel as great you will not. May the farce be with you.
Lesser Moral : Don’t do the dishes until they know why they’re going to be cooked.

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