We already experienced chicken math, wherein 2 people agree to get 4 birds and end up with 8 in a suburban quarter acre lot where their legality may be open to the interpretation of idiotic public officials who don't read the regulations they pass. But I digress. Has anyone experienced a mysterious loss of time while visiting their girls? I have noticed that when they climb up onto my shoulder and stare into my face it is hypnotic. Even as I wonder "Is she about to peck a hole in my retina?" I cannot turn away or remember anything more important to do. I tell myself it doesn't hurt when they rip out my hair 2-3 strands at a time-frankly I'm so excited that their paying attention to me I can't help but wonder if they are secretly drugging my water with a chicken addiction chemical. The random stretches of wing and leg become the swan lake of checken ballet. The cozy warmth of one of the girls roosting on my shoulder weaves an enchantment that cannot even be broken by the enormous glob of poo that rolls down the fron of my shirt and into my hands like a warm and squishy tumbleweed. ( For reasons I have not yet deduced they only roost on my shoulder facing backwards.) Weak mind? Or in the immortal words of Farmer Tweedy, are the chickens "getting organized"? Are they using secret powers of persuasion to increase their (presumably freezer-safe) numbers and distract us from our daily lives so they can rise up and avenge the untold numbers of their brethren who have lost their lives in millennia of checkencide?