Wednesday, July 06, 2005 | I muse about a lot of things. For example, what if I had been able to fit my 6-foot-4-inch body into a chicken suit? Would I have become more famous than as a guy whose main claim to fame is living in a dipsey dumpster?

Best of all his routines were impromptu. You didn’t dare take your eyes off him because even he had no idea what he’d do next. I remember once against the Cardinals when he had just finished his routine of sweeping off the bases. He was marching along (in swim fins no less), soldier-fashioned, with the broom over his shoulder, when one of the Cards raised a bat as if it were a rifle and took a shot at him. The Chicken didn’t hesitate. He fell and flopped around as if his head had been chopped off. Then he grabbed his broom, aimed it at the dugout, and mowed down the entire visiting team’s bench. The dreaded enemy players fell over and did their own flopping. Nobody escaped his satire. Nobody cared.

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