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{July 8, 2011}   Chickens Are Assholes

Don’t give me that look. It’s true. Chickens are assholes. I know because when I was little, we had chickens and it was my job to gather the eggs. First, you had to make sure the rooster was no where to be seen, because those spurs on his legs aren’t decorations. Assuming you evade death by rooster, you then have to sneak up on the hens and ever so gently slip your hand under their roosting bodies and snatch that egg real quick like. If you aren’t quick enough, that asshole chicken is going to peck you. Hard.

That being said, I still wish I had a couple of chickens…and maybe a milk cow.

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rouxbarb says:

They ARE. Plus they will even peck the crap out of you while you are trying to feed them. And they are stupid. Birdbrains.



fairbetty says:

Ha ha ha ha! Death by rooster would be an awful way to go.

I want some chickens. Fancy ones that lay colored eggs. May get those some day.



marcus says:

Have you ever heard Sic ’em on a Chicken by Zac Brown Band? It is quite apropos to this post.



[…] back this up a few steps. You all know that I think chickens are assholes. Well, it turns out that only LIVE chickens are assholes. Dead or fake chickens are actually quite […]



As my sweetie says, chickens are just fast-moving plants; even vegetarians should be at peace eating the darned things.

Here’s my personal chicken saga: the school I went to (K-12) was founded on a farm, and even when they moved to a site in the ‘burbs they kept a farm (for which I am eternally grateful; not many city-folk have the sort of perspective this gives). Anyway, I always took a farm period because I loved working there, except for one thing: there was a tiny bantam rooster who had decided, in his tiny chicken brain, that I was the Spawn of Satan Who Must Be Destroyed. He attacked me every time I came into the farm area, fluttering and spiking and generally making a fuss. In spite of his fury, he weighed like 18 ounces and never even managed to scratch me, so I put up with his antics and never did more than gently push him away… until the day he got past my jeans and boots and scratched my leg. I went away and cleaned up, then came back in ready to rumble. By then he was all the way across the yard, and our eyes met for a moment. He puffed himself up, clucked once, and charged. As he got close I reared back and booted him across the yard – not too hard, but enough to raise a cloud of dust and feathers behind him. He righted himself, shook his feathers out, glared at me… then stalked away haughtily. But he never attacked me again.

And that’s the story of how kicking a cock avenged my bloodied leg.

Light and laughter,
SongCoyote



bmd238 says:

I LOVE this story. It had me giggling at my desk. Thank you!



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