I’ve always pondered the lives of journalists. Most of the time, I’m envious of their world travels, their intimacy with countless subjects and their dogged spirit. Other times… well, not so much.

Case in point: I just read a story about a prank at a Philly high school involving dozens of chickens and even more chicken feces. Over the weekend, apparently, a crafty student sneaked countless hens and roosters into the school’s halls and abandoned them until their discovery early yesterday morning. The result? Hilarity, school cancellation and one big steaming pile of soft news. (Among other big steaming piles.)

But I feel bad for any journalist who had to cover the prank. This is the kind of story where some up-and-coming AP reporter gets a call around 6 a.m. about “school crime in Philly.” In his mind, this could be the story that makes his career. He gets excited, puts on his best I-make-less-than-you-but-know-a-lot-more clothes, runs outside to hail a taxi and tells the cabbie to “make it there before those Reuters bastards.”

Then he gets to the scene and almost immediately steps in chicken shit.

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