A Fowl Christmas Indeed

December 28, 2005 - 11:39 a.m.

Here I go again. Doing weird shit that I didn’t realize was weird until later when someone points it out to me and then I pause midstep like: Haaah- oops. Another one slipped by me again. That means I don’t have a firm grasp on reality.

I really thought that this year I would not get bothered by people’s greed and grinchiness, for some reason I thought I had found some Zen, that after posing in the backyard in the whooping crane position, that my Chi would be in order, my chakras shocked and so on and all the world’s eee-vells would roll off my greasy duck feathers, and I could quietly quack away, gliding through the world, skimming over the riff raff and maintain my SERENITY NOW.

*sigh*

Remember the Chicken Lady? Because you don’t know Shawna Mooney if you don’t know the Chicken Lady. Go read about her and her Beaver friend because it’s all about fellatio and vomiting with a beak as the main orifice. I fuggin hade that bidge, but really I hate the IDEA of her more than I hate HER, you know? Her, herself, Herself The Chicken Lady Elf, is painfully boring and vapid with the emotional maturity of a twelve year old and reading her stupid diary is like holding burrs under my eyelids.

Her stupid diary…I made the mistake of mentioning to a few co-workers that the Chicken has an online diary, and then I had to explain what an online diary IS, and then they’ve been pestering me ever since to print it out for them every day. I won’t tell them the web address, do you think I’m stupid? Not that it is hard to find, you just type in the name of my company and her first name into google and up it pops with her chicken face plastered all over it. Because she is So. Dumb. I mean…no matter how benign you THINK your stupid diary is, why would you put your real name, face and the company you work for on the internet, inviting people like Shawna Mooney to ruin your life?

So against my will, I’ve become privy to the inner thoughts of our feathered friend, followed by a question, answer and slam session. I don’t even care enough to make mental illness/bulimia jokes anymore so I let them talk amongst themselves. It’s especially sweet when the Chicken talks shit about people at work, sometimes using their real names. She has used my real name, but sadly, it was about her wanting to be friends with me: “Shawna’s actually terribly funny and I'd love to get to know her more but she seems to have these sort of "walls" up where I'm a bit hesitant to even chat much with her!”

Me, have walls? More like chicken wire.

Are you embarrassed for her? Cuz I sure am.

About greed…right.

So we had a Secret Santa gift exchange at my work and no, no one wants to buy gifts for their co-worker, but we do it anyway because it is the right thing to do and it fosters good relations and – I don’t need to explain this to you because you have a brain in your head. But the Chicken Lady does not and in the midst of a staff meeting loudly declared that she is a “grinch” and would like to be excluded from the exchange, despite the fact that my department is very small, intimate even, at only 9 folks in for the trade.

“I just don’t feel like buying a gift for someone.”

We gave her the go-ahead to go ahead and fuck herself and shrivel and die alone on Christmas Day.

No, we gave each other the eye roll and told her she doesn’t have to participate, but then a few weeks later she had a (bi-polar, schizophrenic, PMS) change of heart and joined in. We were not impressed, as her true feelings had already been revealed.

Plans were made for a holiday potluck, bring a dish to pass, and bring your Santa gift. Everyone was designated a certain dish to bring, to prevent the typical appearance of 8 bags of Doritos and 2-liter of strawberry Crush. The Chicken was supposed to bring an appetizer, like meat and cheese. And I, ironically, was to bring chicken.

We drew names out of a hat, and I drew, ta-daa! The Chicken. Like I didn’t see that coming. God is testing me, she is.

I was having a moral dilemma, and I asked my boyfriend one night what to do. “For anyone else on the planet, I would go all out and spend twice the $20 maximum, wrap the gift all up with bells and whistles, but, but – I haaate her. I can’t decide if I should do the generic $20 DVD in a gift bag, or if I should do a Shawna Mooney.”

“You know what you should do.”

Damn.

My mama always said, if you have an enemy, kill ‘em with kindness.

So I went out and spent $30 at Bath & Body Works, wrapped it all sparkly and threw in a heartfelt Santa card with more than just my name signed.

The night before the party I took a look at her diary, where amongst other cry-baby lamentations, she wrote: “oh hell I just remembered tomorrow is our stupid pot-luck-and I need to buy deli ham and cream cheese-and our stupid "Secret Santa/Secret Shlomo" exchange. I know what I'm getting for my...whatever you call the person you're giving a gift to, but I of course, don't have that, either. Meaning I have to go out in this SHIT falling from the SKY and run errands. But of course I first have to run home because I don't have my checkbook/debit card.”

Yahhhh, the SHIT falling from the SKY is called SNOW you fuggin TWAT. And (a) it was like 3 flurries floating around, and (b) you’re a scatterbrained idiot for not having your money with you, and (c) I could slap the ugly off your face for being so. damn. seventh. grade.

*huhhhh*

I went into work the next morning and her chair was empty. I turned to the nearest person and said, “SHE DID NOT CALL IN SICK THE DAY OF OUR PARTY.”

But she did. And I’m totally not exaggerating that she has literally called in sick 39 times this year and is on the verge of getting fired and I know this because I’ve seen her employee file and please do not ask how I saw it.

Everyone was pissed at this blatant slap in the face, she had no one fooled, and someone had to go out and buy food on her behalf since there wasn’t enough to go around. Later that night I read her diary and she had spent the whole day posting and blahbing about how she stayed home and snuggled with her cat and ate all of the ham and cheese roll-ups.

That also conveniently gave the bitch a 4 day weekend.

And the day she returned to work she “forgot” her gift for her Secret Schlomo, but had written in her diary all-caps, all exclamations of WHY WHY WHY do I have to buy a gift?? I don’t waaant to!

But funny, as soon as she saw the gift from me on her desk, along with 3 other gifts from management, she had a change of heart and was born again like Scrooge McChicken. Suddenly she’s tap-tap-tappin’ away at her keyboard, shouting good tidings to the world and gushing about the lotion I bought her. Then she invited the internet to leave their address and she would send out Christmas cards to all how replied! (grrrr, sound familiar? Everytime I find something I have in common with the Chicken, an angel falls from heaven.)

I watched her diligently fill out Christmas cards at her desk, all with tin-foil snowmen and neat cursive handwriting.

Fast-forward a few days, I’m sitting at work, just about everyone has gone home and I start reading her diary:

“No one is getting any cards from me. I just tossed all of addressed holiday cards in the trash. I was flipping through them and then it dawned on me that Christmas is stupid, everyone sucks and I hate everyone.”

I froze at my desk. She can’t be serious. But I knew that if I turned around, I would indeed find a garbage can full of Christmas cards. I got up, walked to her desk, and found a whole stack of signed, sealed and addressed Christmas cards in the trash. That’s when I snapped. Up until this point everyone thought that the Chicken was crazy, melodramatic and annoying. But nobody believed me that what it all boils down to is that she is immature, self-absorbed, and above all, AN ASSHOLE. What kind off dick, in a spastic fit like a teenager, decides that all the world should be punished because SHE is crazy? I mean, all of her internet friends are a bunch of depressed weirdos with screen names like thesadtruth and miseryme and sickofitall and chaos. Most likely they were really looking forward to her tinfoil card and much of their happiness hinges on stupid shit like getting the attention of fellow depressed strangers on the internet.

So naturally I had no choice but to dig the cards out of the trash, place stamps on them, and promptly drop them into a mailbox.

I didn’t even have to think twice about it. I overruled her insanity and sent Christmas to a bunch of people I probably would have no desire to ever know. I was VERY tempted to open them up and write my own special greeting inside, something about her being a scaly lizard’s vagina, but I decided not to.

I knew she would find out about the cards, that the weirdos would thank her and such, but I knew she couldn’t prove it was me and maybe she would even doubt her own memory and think that she actually HAD mailed them out.

The cards were all received and yesterday she asked everyone at work if we knew anything about it, and I feigned ignorance, but made a point to emphasize: “Wait, you mean you filled them out completely, and then threw them away so no one would receive them?” to embarrass her in front of everyone.

Then she said that it borders on mail fraud, and I wanted to remind her that trash is public property, and if she was stupid enough to put her friends’ addresses into the trash, then it’s her fault. But I thought my over-involvement in the conversation would cast suspicion.

She eventually surmised that it must have been some sort of Christmas Angel Miracle and she was ultimately quite pleased because it ended up bringing much attention her way and that’s what keeps her happy.

I hate that Chicken, and may she drown in her trough and go to a special chicken hell, spending eternity on the Conveyor Belt of Never-Ending De-beaking.

PS – She called in sick again today. I should go find out what her and her cat are doing at home.

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