After a particularly wild night out, Bob found himself in a situation he never expected—standing right in front of the Pearly Gates, face-to-face with none other than St. Peter himself.

He blinked, confused, and glanced around at the golden gates and the ethereal glow surrounding everything. “Is this a dream?” he asked out loud, not entirely sure if he’d lost his mind, or worse.

St. Peter, clipboard in hand and a sympathetic look on his face, gave him a small nod. “Bob, you passed away in your sleep last night.”

Bob froze. “Wait—what? No way! That can’t be true. I have a wife! I have plans! I’m not ready to die!”

St. Peter looked at him with compassion. “I understand. Death comes for us all, but sometimes exceptions can be made. You have one option. You can go back to Earth—but not as yourself.”

Bob’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll return,” St. Peter explained, “but as a chicken. Take it or leave it.”

Bob stood there in stunned silence. A chicken? He was desperate to return, but the idea of becoming poultry was almost too ridiculous to consider. Still, the thought of never seeing his wife again pushed him over the edge. “Alright, fine,” he said. “Send me back. I’ll be a chicken.”

Before he could even finish his sentence, the world blurred around him. Moments later, he woke up in a completely different place—outside, on a farm, and surrounded by clucking hens. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a loud “cluck!” Looking down, he saw feathers. And two feet scratching at the dirt. “What the… I’m really a chicken,” he muttered—or at least tried to.

As Bob tried to wrap his head around this feathery reality, a confident rooster strutted over, smirking. “Well, well, look at the new girl in the coop. Welcome to the hen house!”

Bob blinked. “I’m not a girl. I’m Bob.”

The rooster laughed. “Not anymore you’re not. You’re a hen now. Get used to it.”

Bob opened his beak to respond, but instead groaned. “Ugh. I’ve got this weird pressure in my lower belly. It’s like something’s trying to escape.”

The rooster nodded knowingly. “Yup, that’s ovulation. You’re about to lay your first egg. Relax, breathe, and let it happen.”

Bob panicked. “I’ve never laid anything in my life!”

The rooster chuckled. “Don’t worry. It’s all instinct. Just don’t fight it.”

Reluctantly, Bob closed his eyes and followed the rooster’s advice. After a strange and slightly uncomfortable few seconds, it happened. An egg plopped out beneath him. Bob stared in disbelief. “Oh my god. I laid an egg. That actually just happened.”

A strange mix of confusion and pride flooded his tiny chicken brain. He’d done it. He was a mother—or something like it. As bizarre as it felt, there was an odd satisfaction in it. Moments later, another egg followed. And another. Bob started to feel a rhythm, a natural order to it all. Maybe being a chicken wasn’t so bad after all.

Just as he was preparing to lay a third egg, a sudden, sharp smack landed on the back of his head.

“Bob! Wake up!”

Bob bolted upright in bed, gasping. His wife stood over him, looking both furious and disgusted.

“You’re drunk again!” she shouted. “And you’re pooping in the bed!”

Bob’s eyes darted around the room. He was back in his familiar bedroom. The soft light of morning filtered through the curtains. No feathers. No eggs. No rooster. It was all a dream. A ridiculous, vivid, emotional, chicken-laying dream.

His wife yanked the covers back and stormed off to the bathroom. Bob sat there, stunned and more than a little embarrassed. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. “Wow,” he whispered. “That felt so real.”

He sat quietly for a moment, reflecting on everything he’d just experienced. Sure, it was a dream, but there was something about it that stuck with him. The shock of death, the negotiation with St. Peter, the panic of finding himself in a chicken’s body, the strange pride in laying an egg—it all carried a weird sort of meaning.

Maybe it was his brain’s way of telling him to slow down. Or maybe it was just his imagination running wild after one too many drinks. Either way, he couldn’t deny it had an impact. He glanced at the egg-shaped dent in his memory and smiled.

“Next time,” he muttered to himself, “maybe I’ll stick to just one beer.”

Though his wife was still fuming, Bob had learned something—maybe not about chickens or the afterlife, but about appreciating life, weird dreams and all. And while the egg-laying might’ve been all in his head, the feeling of waking up with a second chance was real.

He made a quiet vow to himself to cut back on the late-night partying. After all, not every dream ends with a return ticket. And just maybe, he’d start treating his mornings with a little more respect—and a little less vodka.

If you found this story as hilarious and bizarre as Bob’s dream life, hit that SHARE button and spread the laughs with your friends. You never know who might need a wake-up call… or a feathered reminder not to drink too much.