Funky Chicken

Sit down, people. Bad news. The Rock Chick has been vandalized, criminally damaged and odiferously abused.

I told you yesterday that my car stank. Despite odor neutralizing bombs, scrubbing carpets and some lovely lavender Febreeze, I couldn’t unfunk the car. By yesterday at lunchtime, it was unbearable.

I looked under the car, I searched the engine, I even took the seats out of my car in case something had hopped in there and died entrapped in one of the seat mechanisms.

Nothing! What the funk?

I did get a clue when I was removing the rear seats. My gagging reflex informed me that the smell was much more concentrated in the back of the van. However, I still couldn’t find anything!

I opened the compartment that holds my jack in the rear of the van and OMG, I literally almost keeled over, but I found it.

What? What was it, Rock Chick? What did you find?

I found a paper lunch bag containing what appeared to be rotting chicken and dog droppings. At least I am hoping they were dog droppings because I don’t even want to think about people poops in a lunch bag in my car.

I almost lost my lunch. I had found me a stinkbomb!

What kind of psycho would do something like this and why on earth would they do that to me?

I know, I know, lock your car doors, Rock Chick. I know. Sigh.

Was this targeted? Does the chicken and the poop combo mean something? Is someone trying a roundabout way to call me a “chicken shit”?

I try to go out of my way not to annoy people and I can’t think of anyone I might have angered enough to do this, unless...maybe it was the very creepy man from the convenient store.

On Friday night, I stopped at the store to pick up a case of beer for our first springtime neighborhood bonfire and some guy was in line behind me flirting like mad. Understandable, I was looking pretty cute that day.

He asked me if I was having a party and I said “Oh, just a little thing with the neighbors”. He said he felt chemistry with me. (Great!) and he wanted me to invite him and was pretty persistent. I said no, “just a little get together with close friends”, smiled (that was my mistake) and put my beer on the counter to pay.

He took out a Sharpie and wrote his phone number on my beer box just in case I changed my mind.

I won’t, weirdo, so feel free to make other plans, ok?

Maybe he didn’t like that I rejected his advances? Maybe he followed me and I didn’t notice?

Or maybe the stinkbomber is my neighbor, Crazy Eddie. A few years ago, he had convinced himself that I was in love with him and when I told him to get lost, he went beserk and showed up banging on our front door late at night.

My husband reiterated the "get lost" message or he’d soon have a bullet in his butt (similar to my Catboot heel) but he came back the next day with an apology note written on a lunch bag.

I haven’t seen Crazy Eddie since a SWAT team removed him from his house a while back, but his car is back. Could it be?

Who knows? All I know is that I seem to be unable to completely remove the funky chicken shit stink from my car, so I’m going to have to take it to a professional.

The real Nancy Drew never had to solve these kinds of cases.