BLOOMINGDALE, I NEED HELP FINDING THE ZOMBIE CHICKEN OF MY DREAMS.
Yes, this is a real chicken.
The face that already knows how everyone in the room dies.
Apparently regular chickens weren’t unsettling enough. Somewhere along the evolutionary assembly line, nature looked at poultry and said, “You know what this needs? A face that looks like it already knows how everyone in the room dies.”
And naturally, I need one.
Not want. Need.
Because why build a perfectly strange little place called Bigfoot’s Farm and then fill it with ordinary chickens? That would be like opening a haunted house and hiring an accountant to stand in the corner holding a flashlight.
This is the same sassy author, Michael Henry, most of you have come to know and love. Except for that one neighbor. He appears to be immune to joy, humor and vehicles temporarily parked near the road, but I digress.
So, people of Bloomingdale and the surrounding countryside, does anyone know where I can find zombie chicks, zombie chickens, fertile eggs or a suspicious farmer who sells cursed poultry from the back of a barn?
Tag them. Message me. Point toward the woods and whisper their name.
I don’t care whether they look haunted, possessed or like they just returned from a three-day bender behind Tractor Supply. I must have them.
Life is short, civilization is clearly circling the drain and eggs are expensive.
Why make normal life choices when you can make every single one weird?
Stay in touch with Bigfoot and his farm — join the mailing list on any page, or go full analog with the Penpal Club: real letters, real stamps, occasional Bigfoot hair. New nonsense drops every Tuesday and Friday.
