We had a large chicken factory (for the better of a nicer word) where you could go and pick out a live chicken. They would kill it for you and pluck all the feathers, after plunging it in hot water.
So my aunt sends my Uncle Joe down to Phillips Chicken House to get two chickens for Sunday Dinner. He brings them home and tosses the bag with the two chickens on the kitchen table. They had not been gutted. That was extra money. And any housewife worth her money could do that herself. He left. My aunt was in the pantry doing dishes. She hears a noise. She listens, Again she hears the noise. Only this time it is louder. She looks out from the pantry, and by this time the two chickens had come back to life and escaped from the bag. There are two chickens naked as can be running around the kitchen and squawking as loud as they can. She had a party line and there were no dial phones at the time. She runs into the dining room where the phone was. She grabs the phone, climbs on top of the table and screams for her party to get off the line. She has an emergency. She gets the operator on the line, screaming, get me Joe, get me Joe. My cousin had to take the phone from her and give her the number where my uncle was.
My Uncle Joe shows up, catches the two chickens, grabs them by the necks, swings them real hard and makes sure they won't come back to life again. He gutted them for her. Leaves muttering to himself something about women being so helpless.
The fact that we were roaring with laughter didn't help my aunt any. And she never forgave us for it either.