The chicken from hell

For everyone's future refrence, don't try to roast Peeps. You'll only get yourself burned. Trust me. Want proof? Check out my pointer finger on my right, No my other right ( That would be left, after many confusing hand gestures). I got my self a nice second degree burn. It looks like a maniquin with out a head, arms, or legs.

My sisters had managed to convince my mom to light them a bonfire, so I tossed on my jean jacket and flip-flops and headed out of doors to participate in the festivities. My sisters moved the trampoline closer to the fire (I was waiting for one of them to be bounced in.) My mom was building it up nice and high, and I was sitting there being slobbered on by my adorible doggies (one of which strongly smelled of the cow manure I'd tried to wash off of him two days before).

That's when I got the great Idea to roast marshmellows. Of course I was thinking normal ones with chocolate and grahm crackers aka s'mores aka some mores aka those awsomely fatening things that cause fights around the campfire because someone always has taken more chocolate than they were susposed to and there's never the right amount of chocolate, marshmellows, and crackers in their perspective containers. Instead my sister brings out mini marshmellows left over from the pizzeria. Stale mini marshmellows.

They don't taste bad. Sorta like the hearts and stars and horse shoes, clovers and blue moons, pots of gold, rainbows, and the red baloons, of Lucky Charms. Somehow one of my doggies got ahold of them and it became one for Jake, one for Shiner, and one for Lisa, untill we finished 'em up. I however was still hungry and had the bright idea to roast me some Peeps. The first one ended up in the fire. The second ended up mooshed in Shiner's fur. The third is the fateful one that burned my fingers and chased me in the house to nurse it with a gel pack and Larry the Cable guy.