The boneless, skinless chicken breast was flying about the kitchen, and there was no way of catching it. I’d grabbed the butterfly net from the garage, but using a butterfly net in close quarters proved difficult. My two nephews, Rick, and Stan, were getting ready to send a chicken up the chimney. “It may not make it,” I said. Rick lobbed it up there but it came back down immediately and when it landed the way it did on the cold tile floor it reminded me of something out of the movie The Blob. “Like an eagle,” I said. “It just needs the right flight path,” he said. “It needs to ride the thermals,” Stan said. “How much thermal is enough?” I said. I was playing along. “Hot and windy enough to lift it, but not enough to roast it,” Stan said. They were going to toss the poor thing back up there again when they decided they should probably check the chimney first to see if anything might stop it. That’s when Rick started up the chimney. His legs dangled out the bottom of it like a rubber chicken’s. “Clear it some good,” Rick said. “Make sure you get all the stupidity,” I said. I’ve never heard coughing quite like that I must say. Rick returned with so much soot all over his clothes and body he was practically unrecognizable. “Look, a blackened chicken,” I said. Rick cried more of a scream than a cry, then in a great flailing and circling, liken to a chicken with its head cut off, he shook off each article of his clothes, and then slowed suddenly, undulating toward the shower in a constant, methodical manner.