October 19, 2007
Originally published October 17, 2003
Chickens are the nastiest birds in the world. They'll shit in their food and water, they will cannabalize their dead and they'll fuck non-stop all day. That's what chickens do. I know. I once raised them.
I had 28 hens and four roosters. "Foghorn" was a Rhode Island Red and cock of the walk. He didn't take any shit from anybody in the chicken coop and he was always willing to drill a hen. I also had "Slick Red," who stayed in the rafters most of the time, until he saw Foghorn occupied with drilling. Then, Red would swoop down and get some, too. If Foghorn noticed him, Red always flew back to sit in the rafters before he got his ass handed to him. He usually got some pussy first, because chickens don't take very long when they are pasasionate. I don't think the hens knew what hit them sometimes.
I miss my chicken coop. I got about 12 eggs every day out of there and a fresh egg is different from what you buy in the grocery store. The yolks are more yellow and they stand up higher when you cook them over-easy. The eggs are more yellow and fluffy if you scramble them.
But be careful. If you have a "setting hen." you may find an egg that you THINK is fresh and crack it to discover an embryonic chicken inside. That's kinda disgusting on a Saturday morning.
It's not as bad as finding your wife in bed with another man on a Thursday night, but what the fuck? We've got roosters, hens and cunts in the world.
They all do what they do.
October 18, 2003
Let me tell you how I became a chicken-farmer. I had Foghorn and two wore-out hens that came with the mini-farm in the coop. I also had about 10 free-range chickens that ran around the place, shit where they wanted and screwed when they pleased until we got Jingles, the Death-Dog, who killed and ate every one of them.
My favorite free-range chicken was one I named "Lonesome George" because he always stayed off by himself. The other chickens picked on him when I went out to feed them. I felt sorry for George. He was a geek chicken.
Jingles started picking off the chickens one by one and slathering guts and feathers all over the yard when she was six months old. That goddam dog was completely feral and no amount of ass-whippin' was going to cure her. I just got used to burying half-eaten chickens and listening to the BC excuse the dog's behavior. "She's just a puppy!" Lonesome George was the last to go because he stayed off by himself all the time.
But he made a fatal mistake one day. He wandered into the yard as he crowed for a handout. All the competition was gone by then, and he wanted me to feed him some corn. Jingles spotted George and took off at a gallop. George RAN, the dumbfuck! I never understood that.
George slept in a tree every night. He FLEW up to his roost. Did he fly when Jingles was after his ass? NO! He tried to outrun a dog that could outrun most greyhounds. I was on the back porch yelling, "Fly, George! Fly!" and the birdbrain just kept running until Jingles caught him and ate most of him.
I beat the shit out of Jingles, but she never paid any attention to that. The dog was feral. I buried what was left of George in the back yard, then ordered 48 biddies from a chicken catalogue. Yes, you can buy Mail Order Chickens.
The BC and I picked them out and we really didn't have much of a yardstick to go by. We wanted some "Easter Egg" hens, which lay pastel blue eggs. She wanted some Vietnamese "Mop-Top" chickens just because she thought that they were unique. I wanted a couple of bantam roosters just because they are little and mean, like me. We checked off the proper blocks, sent off a check and waited.
One week later, I was watching the news on television one Saturday morning when the phone rang. A woman in total panic called from the Effingham County Post Office to alert me that my chickens had arrived. She explained that she got off work at noon that day and she was terrified that the chickens would die if I didn't pick them up right away. I had no idea where the Effingham County Post Office was. I asked if she also had a delivery for Susan LaFave. She did.
So, I called Sue. "Sue, our chickens are at the Post Office. Can YOU go pick them up? That lady down there is kinda insistent." Sue took off down the dirt road in her SUV and was back in about 45 minutes. We had ordered from the same catalogue.
I had 48 little, chirping biddies with their heads poking out of a cardboard chicken-holder. They smelled richly of chickenshit. How they were shipped from where they came from all the way to me is a mystery I'll never solve. But I had them, all alive.
The BC and I kept the biddies in a spare room under a sunlamp until the stench they created was too powerful to handle. We had to move them outside.
I walled off a section of the chicken coop with fine-mesh wire and put the little shits in there. That worked well for a couple of weeks until the dumbfucks learned to fly. The foolish ones would go over the wire and into the coop, where Foghorn waited to murder them, or they would go over the wire and out of the fence, where Jingles waited to murder them. I lost 10 chickens to such kamikaze dumbassery.
I ended up with 28 hens, four roosters and a lot of dead chickens.
What the hell. You can buy a biddy for less than a dollar. I got a lot of fresh eggs out of the deal and I became accustomed to the sound of crowing in the morning. Everybody should raise chickens at least once in life.
You'll learn why chickens are called "bird-brains."
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