Rooster Chronicals: Part III

So I got a bit distracted and went off on a lot of tangents for a while, but it's about time I get back to the main reason I started this blog. Or rather, my attempt to turn a stunt into money ala viral marketing. Except I don't have that many virii, and also, I don't even have a damn product to sell. Maybe KFC? Their chicken seems to make people fucking insane. Anyone wanna advertise on this site? I'll take whatever. Well, let's continue wherever it was I left off.

Poor Heloise! I had done nothing but remind him of his impending death for a while - I found this to be the funniest thing in the whole damn world for some reason. I was getting way too much enjoyment out of taunting this poor rooster. I guess a large part of it was 'gallows humor'. Kinda like M*A*S*H or Catch-22 or something. Like, when bad shit is happening, you have to laugh. Well, I was about to close the peephole on this poor rooster, and it didn't seem to care. I didn't seem to care as well, but inside, there was some apprehension.

For one thing, this rooster was fucking huge! I swear, I've never seen a bigger rooster in my entire life. And alghouth I can't really describe him as cute, I will say he had a certain shine in his poor rooster eyes. I mean, it's not like Heloise was gonna grow up to be in a chicken orchestra or anything. Somehow (the beer played a role in this) I hoarded up my courage and entered the ChickenDome. It wasn't really a dome per say, more like a fenced off garden, but I felt like I was entering a ring of combat. And it was three against one.

Like a gazelle on heroin, I stumbled into the arena. Stepping into the former last meal of Heloise (which just so happened to be chicken scratch, in case there are any historians here documenting last meals) I saw my opponent, fearless until the end. I slowly approached and...he stared at me as if I was his savior. I bent down, scooped him up, and began the walk down the Green Mile. The whole way there, he didn't struggle, or moan, or squawk, or anything. Or if he did, I don't remember it. Really, everything was going very smoothly up until the time we arrived at the chopping block. I think it was about then that Heloise realized the severity of his situation, as he began to struggle.















If not for the courage of the fearless June, the rooster would have been lost...

Tune in next time for the stunning conclusion!

(All pictures from M7 and my brother - thanks a million)

The Rooster Chronicals: Part I

I've been talking about starting a real-life blog for quite a while, and for some reason, I thought I needed a large 'event' to launch myself into the blogosphere. Well, I had the opportunity recently to murder another living thing in cold blood and feast upon it's corpse. I figured, what the heck, that will be my stepping stone into the world of Web Logging, which I hear is now called 'blogging'. I hope I don't get it confused with 'flogging' and cause massive blood loss and lawsuits. Without much further ado, I present the Rooster Chronicals.

Ah, but first, a little background.

Sometime back in the day, in the spring of my sixteenth year or so, me and my small group of friends would often transverse the distance from Keller to Denton, a journey of little more than 30 miles. Ah, the wonderful city of Denton. My memories begin at place called the Argo, where I drank my first alcoholic beverage ever - a luke-warm wine cooler provided by my friend Dave. Well, not just Dave, but Crazy Dave, a member of 'Evil, Evil, Evil, and Ken', a freakish noisy part of the North Texas 'punk' scene. Ah yes, the Halcyon days of my youth, when the only thing that mattered was trying to look cool smoking a Kool ciggerette (the same kind Ben Weasel smokes! ZOMG!) and sipping on a weaty bottle of Bartles & Jaymes like it was a shot of Luis XIII. These were the days when 'The Tomato' (now a burnt up muddy hole in the ground) was still called 'The Flying Tomato' and the streets were literly paved with diamond-plated gold. Along the now-mythical Fry Street laid a store hidden behind the stench of patchoulli and body oder that to this day I still just call 'That Hippy Store on Fry Street' but I think the scientific name was 'Voyager's Dream'. Regardless of what was being called what, they sold bumper stickers by the trunkload. One that caught my eye said 'Love Animals, Don't Eat Them'. [It was actually rectangular in real life, but all I could find is this damn pin. Same animal silouttes and everything, though.] I impulsivly decided I needed it, as for some time period before this, I had decided to stop eating red meat and most other things, but I still ate chicken, and fish, and sometimes pepperoni. Because pig is fucking tasty, I guess. For some illogical reason, the moment I slapped that sticker onto my already over-flaired car, sometime inside of my brain changed. I re-programmed, metaprogrammed, defragged and rewrote my behavior patterns and went veggie. I'll admit I wasn't the only vegetarian I knew - both my aunt and uncle were (and one of them still is - find out who on a future episode of Who Really Gives A Fuck) and assorted friends I knew had toyed with the idea. Whatever my forgotten motives were in reality, as of Febuary 13th, 1996 (according to my muddled brain calendar, I was a fledgling hippie.

It would be another 12 years before I ate meat again. And I earned it, dag-nabbit.