Butchy the Chicken Whisperer chap 5

You wouldn’t believe the work it takes being a Chicken Whisperer. It’s all hands on and gets pretty nasty. Lots of chicken leg holding and handling. Necessitating washing of hands. And again I do this because my mom wants me to wear these fribbing glasses. Which has changed my plans wanting to be a singing cowboy? Therefore, my hero Gene Autry doesn’t wear glasses. Buffalo Bob didn’t wear glasses. Bullwinkle the Moose doesn’t wear glasses. But I do. My mom said it so. Poopy all to heck anyway!

So it was I was walking home after school. As I happened upon Joe Miller’s market a few friends were gathered at the curb in front of Miller’s market. One of my school mates yelled at me to come and see the arrival of the Wienermobile. You know the Oscar Meyer weenie machine. Come and watch Butchy. Oscar will be here any minute. So, I stood at the curb as friends suggested. So in a few brief moments, here came Oscar standing in an open hatch atop the wienermobile blowing a weenie whistle. Tweet tweet tweet. So all we kids yelled and clapped. And out from the side door of the big long wiener jumps a smallish Oscar Meyer with a white chef hat and white cheffing clothes. Moving in our midst he quickly handed out weenie whistles to all us kids. Now let me mention this. I was almost positive this smallish guy is not the real Oscar Meyer. However he did stand less than five foot. It was most obvious to me he was a midget actor. A short guy to play the role of Oscar. None the less, as my friends were tweeting away on their whistles, I glanced over to Oscar (the actor) standing next to Mr. Miller negotiating on a box of cigars. Mr. Miller really knows how to market his business. He knows the power of incentives. So Miller got a bunch of kids milling around his store buying gum and candy and Oscar got a box of Roi-Tans. Wait until I tell my new best friend Donnie from Milwaukee about this Wienermobile thing.

Published by OkieMan

I come from a family who migrated from the parched red dirt Plaines of southern rural Oklahoma. Migrating to blue collar working class community of East Los Angeles. There is where I was born. I am Mr. Writermelon. I can only write what my grammar and spell checker allows. I am neither profound nor profane. Boy howdy! Send comment to: Mr.writermelon@gmail.com

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