Scuse me while I kiss the sky.

Scuse me while I kiss the sky.
Those words had travelled generations down my ouranophilic family line. We were born to fly. Our feet just didn't feel comfortable on solid ground.
Which is why our feet are boneless. Just rubbery blobs of yester-toes.
BO-ING! BO-ING! BHAAAK! I bounced down the sidewalk in my bare boneless rubber feet. I crossed the road. I felt that I had to make some justification for crossing the road.
"Why did the rubber chicken cross the road?" I asked myself. I could think of no better explanation than "to get to the other side" but I kept thinking of something more clever...
It was staring me right in the eye, making coherent thought impossible.I imagined it squeaking as it crossed the asphalt, and the squawk that would emerge when that mack truck came
carreening around the Kristpy Kreme sign because the Trump didn't know how to cross the street and had just stopped in the middle of the road to consider it's options.
The crowds along the edge of the event space argued among themselves as to which way the Trump would go and whether the chicken would beat him to the other side. Some hoped to see
the chicken cross the road first and beat the human. This was one tight race, filmed on someone's phone camera. Very good weather for the race that day! None of them dared complain
about the heat. From then on, humans look up to chickens as role models, and every night, one parent somewhere starts his bedside story like this: "Once there was a chicken..."

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