Did you see the parade? It was the local chapter of the Chainsaw Chicken Chickettes.
The parade moved slow, like smoke drifting through a forgotten summer dream. Majorettes marched tight and sharp, heads held high, all proudly representing Local Chapter #47 — a mysterious group known simply as Chainsaw Chicken.
They didn’t wear masks. They were Chainsaw Chicken, in every quirky, inexplicable way the name implies.
Batons twirled with practiced grace. The crowd cheered, caught somewhere between admiration and confusion, unsure if they were witnessing a celebration or a strange tradition nobody fully understood.
Floats rolled by — loud, colorful, but forgettable — while the majorettes embodied something more profound: a collective identity wrapped in rubbery smiles and unspoken stories.
The mayor spoke of freedom and fireworks, but all anyone really saw was the quiet march of Local Chapter #47, a parade of chickens united by name, by spirit, and by the shared absurdity of this day.
At the parade’s end, the majorettes raised an enormous inflatable chicken crowned with an Uncle Sam hat. The crowd cheered, knowing—without quite knowing why—that on the Fourth of July, everyone is a little bit Chainsaw Chicken.