Rotisserie Chicken I ate a rotisserie chicken tonight. A whole rotisserie chicken. It was lemon pepper rotisserie chicken and just kind of melted in my mouth. Now, I don't feel too well. I spotted the chicken on the rotisserie, twirling away. It was like watching a roller coaster, only whole, headless chickens were strapped in. As my chicken reached the crest of the ride, it would topple head-over-tail as it began it's controlled free-fall. The chicken would flap as it toppled in descent, it's wing no longer tied down. It waved at all of us waiting in line, like a sunburned rider on a roller coast at Six Flags. "Woo whoo!!" the headless chicken would scream, tossing its wings in the air. "Faster! Faster!" I was standing in line, cash clutched in my fist like ride coupons. My mouth watered at the thought of that chicken. It probably got to wait in the air conditioned refrigerator before it got on the rotisserie ride. Then, when the chicken was ready to go, he went straight to the front of the line because without a head, it's blind, and handicapped chickens get to go straight to the front of the line. But the rest of us had to wait in line, hot, sweaty, and hungry, like cattle in a stock yard. "Yeeee! Haw!" my chicken yelled, going round and round and round. He probably had five coupons for the extended ride, and all of us in line would have to wait until the ride was over. After 10 minutes, the ride came to a stop. My chicken was suspended upside down, tossing his wings in the air. But the position he was in, it was really down in the air. His wings flapped in an area that was once over his head. Or under his head. It depends on your perspective. The carnival ride worker in a smock and hair net slowly rotated the rotisserie, and unloaded each of the tanned chickens. Fresh, headless chickens were put in their place, pinned in and strapped with strings. New advances in rotisseries have created larger, faster rotisseries. Rotisserie attendance has soared. "Fly like an eagle," the carnival ride worker yelled as she checked the safety belts of the headless chickens. One was turned away; without it's head, he didn't meet the height requirement. Finally, I made it to the front of the line. "I'll take that one," I said, pointing to my chicken. He was now in resting on his back, belly up, in the tanning booth. I don't think he felt very well as his wing was resting on what would have been his forehead. I could sympathize; I get dizzy with my head. I can't imagine what spinning round and round without your head would do. The carnival worker picked him up, and he flapped with excitement, like a kid throwing a temper tantrum when Mom says, "Time to go home." "This one doesn't want to leave just yet," said the carnival worker. "I know," I said. "I bet he wants to go on that ride again." I took my chicken to the car. He had that hot and sweaty, lemon pepper kind of smell chickens get when the ride the twirling rotisserie all day. I was excited for my rotisserie chicken. My mouth watered the way it does when you think of cotton candy at the carnival. And when I got home, I got a little carried away. I ate that entire rotisserie chicken. The lemon pepper flavor melted in my mouth like the cotton candy at the carnival. And now, only a quarter of an hour later, I feel as if I have been twirling on the rotisserie ride instead of my chicken.