The Call for Help from Chickens

The Phone was soon an island amidst the fowl population. Horrible, just like the smell that was making Becky’s eyes water and making her wish she had a truck full of Febreze. The chickens were in a buzz as to the contraption that their sovereign was using. Becky hurriedly dialed the number and waited for it to be picked up. Finally, her prayers were answered.

“You have reached Chicken Exterminators Inc, what can we do for you?” the receptionist asked politely.

“Hello, I’d like to get approximately hundred chickens exterminated, oh, and do you have anything for eggs?”

“Of course, what’s your address?”

“379 Mohawk Lane, and when will you get here, I’m getting desperate.”

“One of our exterminators will be over there in about an hour, oh, and we don’t do clean up for free, in fact, we don’t do clean up at all.”

Becky said okay and hung up. She sighed, and started dialing another number. The friendly voice of her mother’s psychiatrist’s receptionist picked up. So far, so good, no, so far, so bad.

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