I do not like the cobra chicken

It was the tweet heard round the world

Someone who works with horses tweeted this on June 9, 2018:

I work with a guy from Mexico who doesn't speak a lot of English. A Canadian goose made a nest by one of the paddock gates and hissed at him while he was putting horses out. He comes back to us after and says, “I do not like the cobra chicken.”

Five years later, “cobra chicken” is an internationally-known euphemism for this bastard bird. I heard “air Karen” as another, but it was short-lived. The whole “Karen” thing has run its course. I know some very nice Karens. Let it go.

Anyway, these aviary equivalents to Caillou on meth bender are not to be fucked with. I once tried to mess with one, but thought better of it before I was murdered.

I don’t play golf. It’s kind of an environmental catastrophe, and also boring. Mini golf can be fun, especially if you’re loaded. But playing whack-fuck is just a nice walk, ruined. And also stupid expensive.

But long ago when I was a marketroid I was contractually obligated to occasionally play stupid golf. During one such outing, I actually hit a decent shot and it landed about five feet from the water, near the green. I might actually get par on this fucker.

But there was a Canada goose.

This goose seemed to claim my ball like it was an egg. I tried to shoo the foul waterfowl away from my ball, and it hissed at me. I used my club like a fencing sword—I used to compete in épée—in an effort to send the diabolical dinosaur descendent on its way, but it was all fuck you, no, my ball.

It flapped its wings at me in a threatening manner and the other members of my foursome called out, “Let it go, James. You don’t want to die over a golf ball.”

They were wise, and I listened.

Fast-forward to a few months ago.

I was riding my bike along the river. I often encounter geese during these rides, but they’re generally avoidable. But this one time, they were not.

On the left was a metal railing and a steep drop down to the river. On the right, a small stretch of grass next to a busy roadway. The fucking geese had the entire path and the grass blocked. There were about forty of them, some of them younger, which of course made the adults even bigger assholes over their desire to protect them.

I hit the brakes and came to a stop. I was stymied. There was no way around. The traffic was fast and heavy, racing toward me, slightly less dangerous than a face-off with the fucking geese.

Then, I was delivered from evil.

A woman rode toward me on her bike. She appeared to be about seventy-five years old. She did not stop, did not even slow. She charged straight toward the geese. The expression on her face didn’t even change. This was a woman whose field of fucks was as barren as the Gobi Desert.

And the geese fucking moved.

“Thanks!” I yelled as she passed me by. She didn’t acknowledge my gratitude for her creating a path for me.

Now that I’ve seen it done, I’m wondering if I’ll find the courage to do as she did the next time I’m faced with a wall of cobra chickens.

I expect I’ll chicken out.

Since you’re here, please buy my sweary fucking history book ON THIS DAY IN HISTORY SH!T WENT DOWN