My Chicken’s Got Stage Fright (and I’m Her Reluctant Manager)
Every farm has that one animal with a flair for the dramatic. Around here, it’s not the donkeys, not the goats, and not even the pigs. Nope. It’s Marge—the chicken who thinks she’s destined for the spotlight but can’t quite handle the pressure. And somehow, I’ve ended up as her reluctant manager.
It all started with TikTok. One day, I caught Marge doing this little wing-flap, head-bob routine that looked suspiciously like she was busting out dance moves. Naturally, I filmed it, threw some trending audio behind it, and boom—fifty thousand views overnight. Suddenly, Marge wasn’t just a chicken. She was a star.
But stardom, as we’ve learned, comes with complications. For instance, Marge refuses to perform on command. The moment I pull out my phone, she freezes like a deer in headlights. The same hen who was moonwalking yesterday now stares at me like, “What, you expect me to work for free?” She’ll scratch in the dirt, peck dramatically at invisible bugs, even strut toward the camera like she’s on a runway—but only when I’m not recording.
So here I am, crouched in the yard with my phone, whispering bribes like, “Come on, Marge, give me a little wing action, just one cluck for the fans.” The other chickens think I’ve lost my mind. Honestly, I think they’re right.
And it’s not just the performing. Oh no, being a chicken manager apparently involves negotiations. Marge has developed a diva streak a mile wide. She ignores scratch grain unless it’s served in her favorite spot by the fence. She squawks indignantly if I’m late to open the coop in the morning, like I’m some intern who overslept. And heaven forbid another chicken tries to photobomb her TikTok—Marge will chase them straight out of the frame.
Stage fright, however, is her Achilles’ heel. The second there’s an audience—family, friends, or farm visitors—she clams up. Feathers puff, eyes widen, and she retreats to the corner like she’s auditioning for a role as “background chicken #3.” Which leaves me, her hapless manager, trying to hype her up. “You’ve got this, girl! Just flap those wings like you mean it!” I clap, I cheer, I wave treats like cue cards. The audience laughs, the phone rolls, and Marge? She does absolutely nothing.
Of course, the irony is that the videos of her not performing are the ones people love most. Apparently, watching me try (and fail) to coax a chicken into stardom is funnier than any choreographed routine she could pull off. The internet thrives on chaos, and Marge delivers—whether she means to or not.
So now I’ve accepted my role. I’m not really her manager. I’m her stagehand, her publicist, and her full-time comedian sidekick. She’s the star who won’t perform, and I’m the fool who keeps trying anyway. Together, we make the perfect act: a stubborn chicken and a farmer who should probably find a new hobby.
But hey, if Marge ever decides to overcome her stage fright and really strut her stuff, we’ll be ready. Until then, I’ll be here, holding my phone, muttering encouragements, and collecting mud on my boots—all in the name of show business.
Because on this farm, the drama isn’t in the pig pen or the goat pasture. It’s in the coop, with a chicken who refuses to shine when the spotlight’s on her—and the reluctant manager who keeps believing tomorrow will be her big break.
