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Henny the rooster

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Not quite so mellow today.

This is a story about a rooster who bestowed upon himself the mantle of spokescock for the Supreme Poultry Diety after having identified this role as a potentially lucrative source of wealth.

If you notice any similarity to human behaviour, or to any specific living person, I will not be disappointed, but it is of course entirely coincidental and only a product of your imagination.


Henny was a rooster who grew up to be too big for his spurs.

He was a Rhode Island Red who liked to wear a pure white uniform around the farmyard to make himself look like a superior, more important, imposing, and spiritual White Leghorn.

Henny crowed to all the chickens in the world including the Australorps and the Bantams and all the Fancy Breeds that he had special powers, and a message given directly to him by the Avian Divinity, and that he was the only one who had it, and
“all you chickens had better believe me OR ELSE“.

A lot of the chickens did believe Henny, and many were scared out of their tail feathers, so they all gathered in special chicken sheds to listen to him crowing about how all of chickendom was doomed and was going to be destroyed unless they followed his threatening sermon channelled directly via Providential hot-line into his skull.

Then Henny started to do some really weird things to improve his popularity and profit margin following, like getting lame chickens to limp up onto his high perch, after which he would slap them in the face with one of his wings, and they would fall down on their backs looking for all the world like they were hypnotised, before they all miraculously fluttered off with fully-restored unfettered bipedal competence to the back of the shed.

When all the other chooks saw these performances they would jump with joy, and sob, and cry things like “Amen Henny, you da Rooster” and clap their wings together and thump nesting boxes with their feet until their gizzards felt like exploding.

Side to side he would strut across the perch, with his “striking wing” occasionally pointed towards the rafters of the barn, in front of twenty virginal pullets who cluckily provided an accompaniment of theΒ  “Halle-brrrrrk-buk-buk-buk” Chorus, which gave Henny time to pause and consider his own wonderfulness before patting his comb back into an appropriate state of evangelistic perfection.

And before all the chickens vacated the hen-house they would leave behind gifts, including shell grit made out of diamonds and gold, and pledge to him a portion of all their future egg-laying profits just so that Henny would never go hungry or poor.

Henny never did ever go hungry or poor, and all the chickens thought that they’d been shown the true road to Poultry Heaven, until the following week when the big truck came and took Henny to the abattoir instead.

At that moment they realised that Henny had in fact been a deceitful imposter who had never really been an officially designated Chickengodly Spokesperson, or even a greater poultry-being than themselves.

Their own personal quiet beliefs in their Diety, along with daily good deeds which honoured their faith, were always going to be in His eyes one thousand-fold more important than anything sprouted by a rooster with a loud beak and a gift of theatre.



The Bucket reaffirms it’s respect for those who choose to hold religious beliefs, but not for those self-appointees or hierarchically commissioned monothiest leaders who find ways to take advantage of those believers.


Thank you to all my wise and wonderful friends who contribute to the discussions following my stories…….especially those who pointed out last time the error of my assumption that garden tools and concrete mixers were keys to a woman’s heart, …

so I went out and got her some of these instead;

About GOF

"Life is like a sewer. What you get out of it, depends upon what you put into it." (Tom Lehrer)

24 responses »

  1. And Amen to that, GOF. Not sure about the flowers instead of garden tools and concrete mixers though. I’ll have to do some more work on that. We took some cut flowers to sell at the markets today. Didn’t sell any, so I told Mrs Snowy she could have them… Am I getting close?

    • Thanks Snowy. Sorry you didn’t sell your flowers at the market…..and trust me I know how discouraging that feels.

      And, as for locating keys to a woman’s heart…… good looking here…….I seek guidance from those men who are older and wiser than me.

  2. I was involved in an online discussion a while back re being given flowers. The question was posed: “If you receive flowers do you ring your friends to brag about it or just because it is exciting?”
    My response: if I receive flowers I ring and ambulance cos Mr CC must be extremely ill.
    I did clarify that there was one occasion I did receive flowers from him – some I had grown myself (to take photos of) and weren’t ready for shooting let alone picking!!! (Make of that what you will Snowy…close? hmmmmm!)

    Buying flowers ranks right up there with one of THE BEST things you can do – earns a LOT of brownie points! Garden tools and concrete mixers rank right alongside kitchen appliances – no no no no no!!!

    As for the rooster – he could be renamed Rupert.

    • Mrs GOF has the same response as you. From memory this is only the second bunch of flowers that I have ever bought her, and she really does think I am losing my marbles this time.

      Your advice is very welcome cc… more garden tools……well I won’t need to give her any more of them because she owns a complete vocabulary of previously gifted implements already.

      I did see a very large painting of a reclining nude in the art gallery shop yesterday……I’m thinking she might like that to hang in the living room for her next birthday? πŸ™‚

      • Lol… I’m an artist, GOF. Ever want to see MRS GOF reclining delectably on a… (add personal fantasy here)?? I could hook you up… πŸ˜‰

        • When you say you could “hook me up”…..why is it that I forsee bad things happening to me Tina if I answered that my fantasy involved someone OTHER than Mrs GOF?

          Of course it doesn’t (because I used to be a Methodist). πŸ™‚

          • Ahem… of course, your fantasies WOULDN’T involve anyone other than Mrs GOF. I WAS thinking more along the lines of her reclining on… a bed of flowers… a pristine beach… a bear skin rug… a shining unicorn…

            Tsk tsk… all that hard work gone to waste… πŸ˜‰

  3. Wonderful piece, GOF. Gave several chuckles and the flowers are purdy, too.

  4. Awwww! Lucky Mrs. GOF. Those are super pretty.

    Now that Henny has been sufficiently abattoir’d, do you think the feathered masses will reclaim their diamonds and gold, or find another featherless leader….?

    • Thanks Emmy.

      I don’t like their chances of getting anything back…..and there’s always more opportunistic “Hennys” hiding in the wings……wings?……oh dear! πŸ™‚

      • A position of power and great opportunities… a life of luxury, free of suspicion…
        Religion is and always has been the best way to control the masses and gain power. Why wouldn’t there always be another waiting in the background?…

        • So true. Coincidentally I heard on the radio that today is apparently some sort of anniversary for Jim Bakker…..birthday, conviction date or some such trivia…. I care not about him or his ilk.

  5. Charity not done anonymously must have an element of vanity as well.
    Nice flowers! πŸ™‚

    • In this case there is zero charity and a monstrous overload of vanity.

      Thanks for sending me down the floral path to romantic success kimkiminy. πŸ™‚

  6. I’m not going to tout the obvious virtues of the phrase, ‘it’s the thought that counts’. Because in this case it doesn’t. Practical gifts are cool… but flowers are always ‘Aaawww’ material… especially if they come for no apparent reason.
    You did well, Grasshopper… πŸ˜‰

  7. [this is sweet] Aww, GOF! I knew you were a dear deep inside that crusty shell!

    As for Henny, I’d have thought the other chickens would believe he was a martyr, killed to wash away their own sins. And they’d carry around pictures and other images of Henny about to lose his head on the chopping block, his eyes looking upwards towards heaven, with maybe a claw pointing up as well.

    (I’m sure I just offended a bunch of people of a certain religious stripe. Oh well.)

    • Thanks HG.

      I’m thinking we should co-author a book about Chickenly religion…..seems like you’ve done a lot of the theological background work. πŸ™‚

  8. At one stage we had a rooster called Henry who knew that I was terrified of him. Whenever I went into the chook house to check for eggs he would line up his talons with my shin and attack me! My father and brother did not seem to have the same problem – perhaps it was my squeals that attracted him. I think he went in a pot…..

    I like getting flowers – doesn’t happen often enough though. And when I broke my shoulder earlier this year my company sent me flowers – on *the* day I got back to work! The card said “get well and hurry back soon”.

    • Really nice of your employer to send flowers Emjay….even if a little belatedly….many don’t care that much about their staff.

      The cooking pot is probably an appropriate end for both your Henry and my Henny.

  9. That rooster’s last name wasn’t Bin was it? You know, a spoonerised Henny Bin?

    I wouldn’t mind if he went to the great chook pen in the sky though a more southerly direction is more probable.

    Perhaps Mrs Gof could combine the last presents and tastefully arrange the flowers in the concrete mixer. It should hold plenty of water and she could see them from her fence building site.

    • I’m totally appalled (for legal reasons) that you would think me capable of using a Spoonerism Pete. πŸ™‚

      I’ll let Mrs GOF know of your great idea…….(and tell her it came from you) πŸ˜‰


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