Mónika's avowed mistake in ordering numerous straight-run guinea fowl meant today was guinea killin' day. For the uninitiated in birdkeeping, "straight run" refers to the acquisition of chicks whose gender has not been determined, meaning you can expect around fifty percent to be those undesirables... males. If you're in it for the eggs, that is.
And we are. In it for the eggs. These guinea fowl? Eight males and only three females, as it turns out. Some dudes gotta go in the boiling pot.
Now me, I'd not yet decapitated anything in my life until this morning, so as executioner you might say I'm a little green around the ears. Upside down in the "poultry cone" (my new hardcore band name), the bird didn't make its considerable neck available whatsoever. And who could blame it, me standing there with a rusty axe? So we figured, perhaps we should knock it out with bee-bee shot, and then it will "hang loose", and then we can cut it off.
I'd also never fired this bee-bee gun of ours before. Let's say I was surprised by its power. I didn't knock out the bird; I blew its brains out. Convulsions ensued, the head flopping about spurting blood, as I fumbled with the axe, chopping clumsily not once, or twice, but a total of five times before finally managing to sever the hideous head.
You might ask, what is the moral of this story?
Yeah. I wondered that, too.