I hate roosters

I hate roosters.  They remind me of idiot boys in junior high who found something snappy to yell to each other in the hallways six months ago and still think it’s funny while the rest of the student population cringe at the sound of if while they take their books out of their lockers for their first class.

I was up above it!

Now I’m down in it!

Roosters are idiots.  They’re like the morons sitting behind home plate on their cell phones talking to their friends while simultaneously waving to the camera as if to say, “You can see me?  Oh my God, oh my God.  This is so sweet.  Are you taping this?  I need another light beer.”

Roosters are sexual predators.  I watch them chasing lady roosters or chickens or hens or … I’m not a damn farmer.  I watch them chase females and when they catch them they mate with them and the females don’t look happy about it.  Sometimes when they’re chasing, I like to step in and run at the male to see how he likes being chased by someone bigger.  Of course, this only delays the inevitable.

Jimi Hendrix once said, “Fall mountains, just don’t fall on me.”

Crow roosters, just don’t crow by my window.

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