Why I Spent 3 Days Boiling Chicken Poop:

A few weeks ago, my husband and I were in the grocery store and we saw a new product on sale. It was called “Chicken Poop Flavored Yogurt” and it was made by one of those chains that makes all sorts of yogurt flavors. We all know them, we may or may not all love them, but they’re here to stay.

We saw this as a great way to get some fresh chicken poop into our diet. We were both intrigued and excited about trying out this new yogurt and we bought it. The next day when he got home from work, he asked me what I wanted him to make for dinner.

“What do you want?” I said as innocently as possible.

“I don’t care,” he replied. “Whatever you want.”

So I immediately thought of something quick and easy that would satisfy his immediate needs. He liked pizza, so I decided to make pepperoni and sausage pizza. While making the pizza crust, I started thinking about how much this is going to cost us, not to mention how long it is taking us to eat it.
As I started thinking about how many calories and fat grams are in a slice of Pepperoni and Sausage Pizza, my mind started going back to how expensive the ingredients were going to be. What if I used the chicken poo flavored yogurt? He would never know.

We could always go back to normal yogurt if he didn’t like the taste. And if we didn’t like the taste, it wouldn’t be an issue since neither of us had ever tried it before. We would just put the whole batch away in the freezer and come back to it later.

I finished making him a slice of pizza that night and we both ate and enjoyed it together. When it was gone, he told me he had another idea and asked if I could help him make something else.

“Sure!” I answered and immediately jumped at the chance. I knew this was going to be fun and I was looking forward to it.

“What do you want to make?” I replied.

“I don’t care,” he said. “Whatever you want.”

“Well, I’d like to make you something different, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem,” he said as he stood up from his chair. “I’ll make whatever you want.”

We went back into the kitchen to get started. As soon as we sat down, I pulled out a huge bowl from the cupboard and filled it with the chicken poop flavored yogurt. Then I poured the chicken poo flavor packet over it and stirred it around.

“What do you think?” I asked him as I looked at the mixture.

“It looks delicious,” he said and took a big bite.

“Mmmm, yummy!” he exclaimed when he swallowed. I smiled. I was really enjoying this. We were having a great time.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. This isn’t your usual yogurt. There’s a lot of extra liquid in here. You can drink it. Just don’t let it go to waste.”

He shook his head no and kept eating. “I’m not going to drink it all,” he said. “I want to save some for dinner.”

I kept stirring the yogurt and the chicken poop flavored liquid kept on bubbling. I was hoping it would be enough to cover the yogurt with a thick layer of the stuff. I stirred it up for a little bit longer and then I told him to take a drink.

“Ohhh, noooo!” he exclaimed. “That’s too much. That’s way too much! I can’t drink that!”

I was looking at him in shock. He was actually afraid of the contents of the yogurt. But I wasn’t going to give up easily.

“Just drink it. It’s okay. It’s not very strong,” I said.

“Okay, okay!”
He lifted the bowl and started to chug. The yogurt was definitely getting stronger. He drank the whole thing. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was starting to feel sick.

“I don’t think you’re feeling too well. Let me get you something to drink.”

“No, it’s fine. I feel fine.”

I got him a glass of water and then I took a break while he drank the rest of his water. While I was waiting for him to finish the water, I decided to make cocktails.

I made two drinks for each of us. One had vodka, one rum, and both were ice cold. I put one shot into each drink and added three dashes of Angostura bitters. To that I added half a lemon peel and a tablespoon of honey.

I also poured a couple of inches of cranberry juice into the glasses and topped them off with the shots. At this point, he was drinking about a third of the cocktail. I asked him if he was okay.

“Yeah, I’m good. Thank you.”

I could see that he was not. His face looked a little flushed, but it was probably due to the alcohol. I could tell that he was a little tipsy, so I gave him another drink. This time, he downed the entire thing. I thought, “Oh shit! What should I do now?”

“We should go out somewhere,” he said.
I ran to grab my keys and we hurried out the door. We didn’t want to waste any time getting to the restaurant.

The first place I went to that night was a bar/restaurant called ‘Dirty Dick’ on Main Street. It was a dive joint with a small stage and about a dozen tables, which were arranged in a semi-circle around the stage. They had an old fashioned jukebox that played country music. There was also a pool table and darts, but that was not what they were famous for.

There was a line to get in, and there were plenty of people waiting outside. We were almost through the line when my husband began to complain.

“I think I’m gonna puke.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t be too bad,” I told him. “Just take a deep breath and relax.”
He inhaled for this, and upon exhaling, spewed half a gallon of chicken poop flavored yogurt flavored vomit with projectile force on the bouncer’s torso, the (already stained) carpeted entrance to the bar, and several other waiting patrons nearby.

“Owwwww!” he yelled as he tried to wipe the mess off his stomach. He continued to stand there, trying to take in the scene before him.

“You need to clean that up, man,” I said to him. “You can’t just throw it all up.”

I grabbed a towel from behind a chair and started futilely spreading it over the floor. Then I realized I should probably get him to a bathroom in case there was more. The bouncer disappeared almost immediately after – I still don’t know if he entered the bar or just walked off the job.

I went back to my husband and told him to sit down and I got him another drink. I figured he would be feeling better in no time. When he finished that, I took a seat next to him and offered him another drink. He refused.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “You’ve already done enough.”

“No, I haven’t. You need to relax.”

“I think I’m gonna puke again,” he said.

I didn’t want to push him. Besides, I wanted to finish my second drink before we left. So I went to the restroom to clean myself up.

When I returned, the bar was closing. The mess my stupid husband had made of the entrance was untenable, they were short-staffed as the bouncer had gone home, and the bartender, who I think was also the owner, looked pissed at us. I was so mad I didn’t even care about paying the bill.

“How much is your tab?” I asked the bar tender anyway.

“$200,” he said. “You owe me $200.”

“Sorry, dude, but that’s too rich for my blood. Me and my husband will be leaving.”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I’ll give you the money tomorrow. But right now, I’m going to walk out of here.”

I took my husband by the arm and led him outside. As we walked away, I heard a woman say to her friend, “She looks like she’s having fun!”

And that’s why I still love drinking.

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