Foul Fowl

by Rosie Sorenson — Apparently, it’s not enough that I made a contribution to the economy, say, by buying a rubber chicken from Amazon. No. After my purchase they have to go and badger me into writing a review. Of a rubber chicken!

The subject line in the emails from Amazon read: “Did Rubber Chicken Meet Your Expectations?” Seriously?

Please tell me, in what intelligently designed universe is this not crazy?

Just how many expectations can one have of a rubber chicken? I mean, you can’t eat it; it can’t spring to life to do the funky chicken dance; it can’t lay eggs. It just lies around in its rubber chicken-ness, doing absolutely nothing to contribute to the relationship. That’s pretty much all you can expect of a rubber chicken, not unlike some men I dated back in the day.

But was Amazon going to stop harassing me because I didn’t log onto its website and record my opinion of their funny floppy fowl? No-siree-bob. Just like that boyfriend you once had who wanted to be with you 24/7 so he could suck the brains right out your head, they were not going to give up. This is, after all, We-Rule-the-World Amazon.

Now, I have no intention of telling Amazon, but I will tell you—50,000 of my closest friends—why I shopped online for a rubber chicken. Many years ago, before I met my sweetheart Steve, I engaged in what could only be called binge dating. When someone seemed a possible “keeper,” my friend Jill would organize a “rubber chicken” dinner, a coming-out party, if you will, for my new man to meet several of our friends. It was really more of an excuse for them to audition him. I blush to admit that none of the men prior to Steve received a follow-up invitation; none made the cut. Years later I found out that when my date-du-jour and I would leave the party, eyeballs would begin rolling around in my friends’ heads as if aliens had overtaken them. What was she thinking?

Anyway, after my friends met Steve, Jill said, “Looks like I can finally hang up my rubber chicken!” No more eye rolling.

When our eighteenth anniversary was upon us, I realized I had been remiss in repaying Jill for all her steadfast support. Thus, the rubber chicken.

After the fourth beseeching email from Amazon, I relented. I logged onto the site and wrote: “I bought this as a gag gift. It’s pretty funny.” Satisfied that I had captured the essence of my chicken purchase, I clicked “Publish.” Done. But, no! Mr. Amazon flashed a message scolding me because I hadn’t “used enough words.” OK—now I’m really cheesed off. First, they demand I write a review—then they censor me? Don’t they know with whom they are dealing? If a woman is screwy enough to buy a rubber chicken, what else might she do?

Whaddya say we gather a million of our closest friends, don our chicken suits and lay some eggs at Amazon headquarters?

Cluck, cluck.

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