I’m hoping roosters taste exactly like chicken, because my other neighbor just got a mutha-fuckin’ rooster.
We already had one southeast of our bedroom. Now the house directly to our west set up a rooster right outside our kitchen.
How do I know? Because I had a sleepless night in Gilbert and wandered out to the couch. Feel asleep to the Science Channel and woke up at the crack of dawn to what sounded like a old woman with pnuemonia being attacked by vultures.
Took me 3 minutes to think through my bleary eyes to realize — it’s just more chicken shit. Now it’s coming from the other side of the house. Goddamn chicken-shit surround sound.
One goes off, then the other to match, and then they are screaming to see who can make the most noise before the garbage trucks arrive…
Why the fuck do these people need a rooster? Baby chicks are a couple of bucks. You can buy all you want cheaper than you can feed your own loudmouth aggressive “cock”.
Every time I think our society is making progress, some shit like this pops up. We were doing so well. Indoor plumbing replaced shitting in your backyard. Sewer systems replaced storing your shit underground in your back yard.
Concrete fences and leash laws kept dogs from wandering the streets and forming little street gangs of dachshunds and golden retrievers.
There used to be laws that kept goats and cows and chickens out of suburban back yards. I really don’t want to live next to my meat. Let them grow on those factory fields in Iowa or Arkansas — those people love manure.
But these goddamn hippies and crazy-ass preppers with their fresh vegetables and organic animals brought the chickens back to suburbia.
What’s next? Are we going to start running sheep down main street during sheering time again? Fuck.
This mini-farm in the burbs is not a healthy movement for better food. It’s a fall back to serfdom.
Next step, we will have to survive on what we can grow on our own little plots while “The Lord” of the manner controls all the means of production. Only this time, the Lord doesn’t live in a mansion we can see. He’s hidden behind investment banks and living in one of 6 mansions spread around the world depending on the season and the local taxes.
All this reactionary economic theory is running through my head before I can even get off the couch and get coffee. But the coffee maker is in the kitchen, a scant 20-feet from that screaming chicken.
Should I go outside with a pitchfork and an axe and put an end to this suburban farm? Shit, I don’t own a pitchfork — I live in the suburbs for fuck’s sake. I’m not getting in a fight or going to jail over a chicken.
I make coffee and hatch a plot.
My grill is just 25 feet from this rooster and whatever gaggle of hens he may be “guarding”. Instead of steak and burgers, every weekend we are going to be grilling chicken. Chicken breasts, legs and thighs — shit I’ll even pull off their little wings and cover them in hot sauce right in front of their living cousins — just to remind those bastards who’s in charge.
Keep screaming your head off at 5 a.m. mother fucker, and you might just be the one sizzling at 5 p.m..
Let’s see if a little grillin’ get keep that rooster chillin’.
Categories: Phoenix Fables