More proof of a conspiracy

While we were visiting my sister, Rose, she asked my two kids if they wanted to help her clean out the chicken coop. Of course they said yes - I have been successful in teaching them that manual labor is an honor, after all, or maybe they are still too young to realize the real reason I conceived them - at any rate, the prospect of handling animal feces thrilled them and off they went.
I was still reeling from the emotional trauma brought on by my husband's suggestion that we get our own chickens, so my first instinct was to forbid the children anything to do with chickens, but then I remembered that would only make them want chickens more.
So I bit my lip and let them go.
Oh I suppose you still want to know why I hate chickens. Yes, I said it - I hate them. If eggs were not so good to eat, I would say kill them all! But I can't deny that every time I eat a chicken sandwich a small part of me is secretly glad another one is dead. I don't hate them because they are smelly, filthy and their poop makes your eyes water. I hate them because one pecked my nose off.
No lie. My entire nose. Since I was only 2 years old at the time, my nose wasn't very big, but still. My mother tells a harrowing tale of that day:
I had headed outside announcing my intent to play with "the kitchens," as I called them, when moments later my mom was alerted to my piercing screams from the backyard. Looking out the window, she saw me on my back on the ground, and our large, notoriously agressive Leghorn rooster atop my chest, pecking away at my bloodied face.
She says her greatest fear was for my eyes. She rushed me inside and laid me down on the washing machine while she prepared a wet washcloth. Carefully, mom wiped the blood from my face with the cloth, and to her horror, as she drew the cloth across my face my nose came with it. Somehow, even in the mass hysteria that ensued, she was able to gather me, my other five siblings, my nose, and get us all in the car for the 45 minute trek to the county hospital where Dr MacDonald stitched my nose back on. I think that was in the days before 911, or getting your nose pecked off didn't warrant a real emergency, I'm not sure which. I know these days anyone would call an ambulance first, because now even not being able to poop at 3 am is an emergency. I get bullshit calls all the time like "I can't feel my legs" and I'm like, ok, how long has this been going on? And they're like, "my back has been going out on me for years" and I repeat "how long have you *not* been able to feel your legs?" And they look at me like I'm kind of retarded and say more loudly and slowly, "I HAVEN'T FELT THEM IN YEARS" so then I think they have a hearing problem and I ask "SO WHAT MADE YOU CALL 911 TONIGHT?" And
Ahh crap. Where was I. Oh. Before you get all you-should-know-when-911-was-invented, no, I don't remember. When you call an ambulance, (and it better be for an emergency and not because you slipped getting in the tub and the beer bottle 'just sitting there' you landed on got stuck in your rectum), do you want me to remember when 911 was started or how to jump-start your heart? Because there's not room for all of it in my head.
So anyway, I'm not sure where I was headed with this post, but after watching (from a safe distance) my kids gleefully scoop chicken poop, I am pretty sure there is a conspiracy movement underway. I even have photographic evidence, which I would post but I haven't figured out how to do that yet. When I turn up dead or in a nut ward, I hope I have at least one loyal fan who will show this blog to the police.