“I wonder what color rooster eggs would be. Dark brown I think. Do you think so, Bro?”
These are the words of my grandmother. This is just another reason I love her (and another reason I know we are blood related). How else could we have such similar and ridiculously interesting thoughts at the breakfast table? And with German accents, too!
I love you, Grandma Hildegard. (Also, look at that name. It makes Brogan seem ordinary for goodness’ sake.)
You guys always distract me with your nonsense. Please stop.
This simple thought proposed by my lovely and awesomely named elder sparked a whole short film in my head. A short film about a rooster. Let us call him Steven.
Steven was teetering on the verge of depression. In terms of roostering, Stevie boy was pretty darn good at his job. Up every morning at the elastic waistband of dawn (that comes before the ass crack, don’t you know?), Steven hops up onto his fence post to wake up the sun. Imagine that dedication. This hard working feathered friend wakes up before the freaking sun to start his day…and ours as well, mind you.
Kudos to you, Steven.
But that’s just the start of his day. After that, Steven gets the arduous task of fertilizing all the eggs on the farm. Did you catch that? Every last god damned egg on the entire farm!
All of the men reading this are asking why Steven is depressed. Granted, waking up that early is certainly not the ideal situation, but then he spends the rest of his day schtupping every hen that crosses his path. He even has to hunt down the ones that don’t come his way and schtup them, too. He’s like the porn star of poultry, so what’s his deal?
What’s his deal? His deal is that he is emotionally tortured day in and day out. Steven has been thrust into a daily cycle that he cannot escape. Grueling long hours of meaningless sex will tear your soul apart one boink at a time. He can’t ever get a decent night’s sleep or take a vacation, because then who would wake up the sun? That shining bastard never does anything without Steven’s help. Then there’s the helplessness he must feel as the children of his harem are taken from him every day, some before they are even born, to be devoured by the giants that enslave him.
And as if all that weren't enough, there's more. After enduring all of this pain, this anguish, this agony for seemingly endless years…Steven has not once been allowed to lay his own egg. When would there be time for him to even try?
Ladies and gentlemen, Steven is not alone. We assume roosters do not lay eggs because they cannot. This is falsity at its worst.
Roosters do not lay eggs because their time is stretched like a single roll of plastic wrap around a semi truck, their libido is taxed higher than the national debt, and their spirits are crushed beyond repair.
So please, if you have any decency, take a moment on this Monday to mourn for the Stevens out there. They litter the countryside, I’m sure. Send your love and your light, and think on a future when roosters may have the time, the courage, and the freedom to lay their own eggs.
I’m sure they will be delicious.