(Disclaimer) Our friend Fournrussel is getting a bit scatological of late since his old lady up and decided unilaterally to call thier relathionship "open."  He figures that's fine and dandy with him because now he doesn't have to pretend to be sentimental and poetic all the time, and he can just do and say whatever he pleases.  Well that's allright I guess, he always was a strange one, and we did tell him he could use this blog in exchange for fixing the roof.  Enjoy.

The Legend of Chicken Island, based on truth.

There was one sliver of light that shot through the west window just before sunset last night. The clouds have been stubborn, but this morning was a bright one. It was all white snow on the ground and backlit flurries in the air, a real shock to the eyeballs. But this is not a forum for the Weather Report. I, Aurthur Fournrussel am here to tell you that last weekend a legend was born, the Legend of Chicken Island.

We were drinking beer under a bridge and talking some heavy shit. Geological shit, like when a spontaneous island forms in the toilet water and breaks the surface. A big island of steaming stench. “Suicide shits” and then a consciousness stream of hilarious band names, Ambiguous Boner and their big hit Slapstick Toilet.  Mercutio offers up the band name F.A.G. (forget about girls) they have songs such as “Your Dad's a Pussy,” “Gimme All Your Cigarettes,” and "Here Comes the Archbishop."  This is what you talk about when you are drinking under a bridge with dudes, and it's hilarious, and the sun is going down over the foamy river.

an example of foamy froth

Looking at the structural underside of the bridge above we notice I-beams and diagonal struts and it all leads to the the pilings in the middle of the river where trees and trash collect as they tangle against the limestone block foundation. This is the zone of high froth; that sort of yellow merange stuck in branches with bits of bark and bottlecaps and menningitis. Our pal Vespucci the Explorer, who disappeared to piss is hanging from an I beam taunting us to throw him cigarettes. This is impossible because he is 60 yards away and dangling from a bridge with a tall boy crushed into his pocket. It turns out he has some climbing skills and manages not to fall, and continues to explore the upper portion of the blocks. We can't tell what he is scrawling in the rusty beam, but I bet it is either a spunky dick or “fuck off.” when he leaves our view we forget about him for a second and get back to the important business of looking at the horizon. Some joggers in conversation pass overhead with their dull thuds and incomprehensible breathy conversation. We pretend it matters if they hear us, and fall into a looking silence.

 “Mercutio! Gimme all your fucking cigarettes.” Vespucci harkens. He dropped invisibly onto the small island formed around the foundation blocks of the bridge support and is now hunched like he's taking a shit and is looking at tracks in the soil. “Chickens!” he yells. “I hereby claim this land and call it Chicken Island. You all can suck it!”

 “Vespucci! How did you get down there?”Mercutio yells.

“I dropped down on the other side. The ground is pretty soft. What a lovely place. Look at all this rotten stuff”

“Yeah it seems great with all the froth and trash and darkness coming. Oh shit! your beer survived? You are the greatest.” I say while I am secretly curious how this is all going to play out.   Mercutio goes to the top side of the bridge and is now squatting on the top of the pier looking down at Vespucci. He drops a lit cigarette down to him.

“I'll come down here every day to read you Grimms fairytales and throw bread and blankets at you.” We all conclude separately that there are two ways out for him, a swim in the cold frothy chicken water, or a climb up. Sal goes to grab a tow rope out of his car.

Tying off the rope to the bridge, it is just long enough to reach Vespucci's waist. He tries a gymnasium climb but can't get a good grip. Sal asks us all “Does anybody know any knots?”

Shrugs.

“Come on you pussy, you can't even climb with a rope?”  Sal jeers.  It is now getting really dark and I collect our empties and the dead battery radio and get up to the topside of the bridge, where we decide to switch to the upriver side of the piling. This is where all the condom branch grocery bag tangles stir the foaming swirls. It'll give us an extra 6 feet of height with an additional likelihood of an infected and broken ankle. Vespucci is so gassed at this point we decide on just pulling him up with our group strengths.

First attempt; crashing failure, but no snapping bones. With new gripping strategy and a foot in a loop at the bottom, tug number 2 produces a prostrate drunkard laughing his ass off on top of the pier. “Thanks guys. I'm exhausted. Its tough being an expeditionary.”